


A Truth Universally Acknowledged

by cyankelpie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Courtship, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feelings Realization, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff With Very Little Plot, Forced Marriage, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Georgian Period, Heavily influenced by Jane Austen, LGBTQ Themes, Marriage as an economic necessity, Mostly she/her pronouns for Crowley, Multi, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Period-Typical Gender Roles, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, everyone ships it, not a human AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27086509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: It's 1812, and Crowley is posing as a wealthy widow to tempt single men into competing for her hand in marriage. It's exhausting, until she bumps into Aziraphale at a ball, and finally has someone to talk to who isn't interested in proposing. Luckily, since it's well-known that Aziraphale has no intention to marry, nobody will draw the wrong conclusion from their enjoying each other's company.For some reason, everyone draws the wrong conclusion anyway.(A fake relationship fic in Georgian England, heavily inspired by the work of Jane Austen.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 270
Kudos: 313
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought taking one undergrad course on Jane Austen would have prepared me to try writing a period piece. What a poor, naive fool I was. After hours of research into British marriage law and mourning etiquitte and plenty of mostly-trivial things, here we are! There are probably still inaccuracies, but I did my best. Anyway, this was mostly an excuse to write Crowley and Aziraphale being adorable in Georgian England, and everyone wishing they'd just get married already.
> 
> Warning for period-typical homophobia, though it's a little toned down from what would have been truly typical. Another warning that life really sucked for middle and lower-class women in the 1800s, and that shows up here too. But despite these things, I can promise that every main character, including some OCs in tough situations, gets a happy ending.

Aziraphale hadn’t decided yet what he thought of London society. Left to his own devices, he never would have taken it upon himself to find out, but then a gentleman named Arthur Fell had come across the sign of his new bookshop and decided they must be distant cousins, and therefore must become acquainted. Arthur was quite amiable, and Aziraphale’s estimation of him improved markedly when he learned that Arthur was not there to buy books. When Arthur invited him to a “small get-together,” Aziraphale accepted. It turned out that Arthur Fell was so amiable and well-liked that he was friends with half the gentry in London, and got invited to most of the balls and parties in the city. Aziraphale didn’t realize until the third invitation that Arthur had decided to introduce his newfound relative into his dizzying social circle, and by then it was too late to back out without offending somebody.

He had to admit, it was fun meeting new people and seeing the insides of ballrooms and grand houses. Most of the time, there was food and wine to be had, which was always a plus. On the other hand, there was usually dancing, which meant that Aziraphale had to make up excuses not to participate without seeming standoffish. Still, the music was lovely, and he enjoyed standing off to the side, watching the more coordinated guests, and listening to whatever new gossip was to be had.

Tonight, the chosen topic of conversation was some wealthy widow who was supposed to have arrived already. Arthur Fell hadn’t yet flown off to greet the rest of his friends and acquaintances, which Aziraphale was grateful for, because it meant there was someone in the circle of conversation who he knew and liked. There was also Mr. Stewart, a clergyman who Aziraphale had only just been introduced to; the young Mr. Yates (or was it Bates?), who Arthur had assured him he had met once before; and Mr. Barnett, who Aziraphale had the displeasure of having already suffered through multiple conversations with. Mr. Barnett was a cousin-in-law of Arthur’s, which, as far as Aziraphale could tell, was the only reason Arthur talked to him. That, and the fact that he talked so loudly that everyone within a twenty-foot radius became unwilling witnesses to the conversation.

“We’ve been here an hour,” Mr. Yates-or-Bates noted, looking at his pocketwatch. “And we weren’t among the first to arrive. Mrs. Harrison should be here by now.”

“You’ll get your shot at her, I’m sure,” said Arthur, with a laugh. “Though I wouldn’t be too hopeful. I hear she’s still in half-mourning for the late Mr. Harrison.”

“It’s been over two years,” said Mr. Yates-or-Bates. “She could stand to start thinking about remarrying, if the right man comes along.”

Aziraphale let out a tiny sigh and looked around the room. If the conversations he’d overheard this evening were any indication, nearly all the single men present fancied themselves the “right man.” Compatibility must come easily when one party was wealthy.

Mr. Barnett scoffed. “You ought be ashamed of yourself. The lady is in mourning! I’m sure she doesn’t want the attentions of some viscount’s brother’s third son.”

“And I suppose you think she wants the attentions of a gentleman’s first son, instead?” Mr. Stewart put in.

“She will choose whoever she sees best fit,” Mr. Barnett said with feigned indifference. “I encourage the rest of you to let her mourn in peace.”

Aziraphale raised one eyebrow. It wasn’t the first time this evening that Mr. Barnett had casually tried to discourage other men from talking to Mrs. Harrison. He had also worn his best clothes for the occasion. It didn’t take a genius to see that he was trying to thin out the competition. “Then you’re not interested?” he asked. “You have no intentions to be introduced to Mrs. Harrison?”

“I’m no more interested than I would be in meeting any other accomplished woman.” He ignored the second question.

“She is exceedingly accomplished,” put in Mr. Steward. “Knows six languages, and plays the piano. And quite charming and quick-witted besides. She’d make an excellent wife for any man. I would have expected you to have recognized that, Mr. Barnett, but if you are not interested—”

“That may be, but I’ve heard she has some sort of unsightly eye deformity,” Mr. Barnett interrupted, glancing at Mr. Yates-or-Bates, who looked increasingly interested as Mr. Steward had described Mrs. Harrison. “As excellent a wife as she might be, there remains the possibility of passing such a mutation to her children.” He frowned. “For that matter, how old is she?”

“I didn’t realize you wanted a wife primarily for breeding stock,” said Aziraphale. “That certainly outweighs all her other charms. I perfectly understand your disinterest now.”

Mr. Barnett smiled in an empty apology that reminded Aziraphale of Gabriel. “You do me a disservice, Mr. Fell. I don’t mean to devalue Mrs. Harrison’s charm or accomplishments, but we must think about future generations. I don’t suppose you’d understand.”

Aziraphale smiled back congenially. At the beginning of their acquaintance, when Mr. Barnett learned that Aziraphale was unmarried, he had decided to introduce Aziraphale to every eligible young woman he could find, until someone finally took him aside and told him, in the right tone of voice to get the implication across, that Mr. Fell was strictly a _bachelor,_ and would not make a proper husband for any of those women _._ Mr. Barnett was a bit less friendly to Aziraphale after that, but Aziraphale did not exactly mourn the loss of his good opinion.

“Well, gentlemen, I wish you the best of luck in your attempts,” said Arthur, with a jovial smile. “Mr. Fell, I’ve just seen Mr. and Mrs. Haynes over there, and I’ve been meaning to introduce you when I had the opportunity.”

Aziraphale gratefully followed him away from the group. “I suppose Mr. Barnett has a point,” he said once they were out of earshot. “I certainly agree that _some_ people ought not to have children.”

Arthur burst into a series of coughs to hide his laughter. “Mr. Fell, you must lower your voice.”

“You ought to tell him that.”

Arthur looked around and shook his head. “That poor woman’s going to be swarmed with suitors when she finally arrives.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement. He could understand the need for companionship, but humans nowadays were absolutely obsessed with carrying on their bloodline. At least he wouldn’t be expected to try talking to Mrs. Harrison.

Arthur smiled to greet the Haynes’, and they talked briefly about how the Haynes’ children were getting along. Aziraphale hung back politely until Arthur turned and waved him over. “I’d like you both to meet my friend and cousin, who also goes by the name of Fell. Mr. Fell is a purveyor of books over in Soho.”

“Oh, is that so?” Mrs. Haynes face lit up, and she extended her hand. “Mrs. Haynes, and this is my husband. It must be very interesting to work with books. I find reading to be one of the principle pleasures in life.”

Aziraphale agreed wholeheartedly, and they were soon happily conversing about their favorite pieces of literature. Satisfied that they were getting along well, Arthur left to greet some of his other friends. Mrs. Haynes preferred poetry, which Aziraphale was glad to discuss, and Mr. Haynes had some ideas about Milton that he simply had to correct. Both of them proclaimed to love Shakespeare, even though it turned out that they had only seen two of his plays, so Aziraphale provided them with a few recommendations of his own. He drew the line at inviting them to visit his bookshop, though. They seemed the sort of people with enough interest and money to try to buy some of his precious volumes.

As they were discussing their favorite parts of _Measure for Measure,_ the air in the room changed. Heads turned, and a few conversations quieted. Aziraphale could guess what that was about, and turned towards the door. “I suppose the long-awaited Mrs. Harrison—”

He stopped. Coming through the door in a gown of dark grey silk and black lace, a string of black pearls at her throat, her hair pinned up in an elaborate contraption of braids and curls, was Crowley.

It was so obvious in retrospect. Aziraphale should have known the moment Mr. Barnett mentioned an “eye deformity.” Of course Crowley would make sure she was the talk of London, and then show up late.

The host of the party, whose name Aziraphale was reasonably sure started with C, came forward to welcome her and the friend she had brought with her. A quarter of the men in the room were looking over with thinly-veiled interest, probably mapping the quickest route to greet her. Another quarter were looking for someone to introduce them. Crowley hadn’t noticed Aziraphale yet, probably because her vision was impeded by the small swarm of suitors migrating towards her.

“Yes, that is the famous Mrs. Harrison,” Mr. Haynes confirmed. “Would you like me to introduce you? We met her at one of these events a little while ago.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you, but that will not be necessary. It’s been lovely meeting you both, but I must go and speak with a friend of mine.” With the help of a few miracles, he made it through the group of men surrounding Crowley. She was pretending to laugh at something one of them had said. Or maybe she was just laughing at him. Either way, she didn’t notice Aziraphale’s approach until he was right beside her.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Crowley jumped at the sound of his voice, which gave Aziraphale a jolt of satisfaction. A grin spread over half her face as she looked at him. “If it isn’t Mr. Fell.”

“Mrs. _Harrison._ ” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows a fraction as he said the name. He took her gloved hand and bent to kiss it. “Delighted, as always. I was so sorry to hear about your late husband.”

Crowley sighed a little more dramatically than was required. “Yes, it was very sudden. Heart attack.”

Aziraphale made a sympathetic noise, and then looked around at the men Crowley was talking to as if he had just noticed them. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Was I interrupting something?”

One of the men opened his mouth, but Crowley cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Nothing important. I always have time for an old friend.”

Someone cleared his throat, and Aziraphale turned to see Mr. Yates-or-Bates behind him. “I’m sorry, you two are acquainted?”

“From a very young age,” said Crowley. “Though it has been…what, ten years since last we met?”

“Twelve, I believe. We have much to catch up on.” Aziraphale offered Crowley his left elbow. “Shall we walk?”

Crowley took his arm, and they made a slow circuit of the room while the small crowd of suitors watched with a blend of confusion and jealousy. Aziraphale used a quick miracle to prevent anyone from overhearing them, and then cast a sidelong glance at the demon. This era’s fashions suited her very well, though he wondered whether anything other than mourning attire would have been compatible with her usual aesthetic. That was probably why she had chosen it. “So,” he began “Mrs. Harrison…?”

“Still Crowley to you, Aziraphale. When no one else is listening.”

Aziraphale nodded. “In that case, why not go by ‘Mrs. Crowley’?”

“I did.” Crowley cleared her throat. “Well, Miss Crowley. For a while.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “You mean to say you _actually_ got married?”

Crowley gave him an odd look and gestured at her half-mourning gown. “You offered condolences for my husband’s death about two minutes ago.”

“I thought it was a ruse.” Aziraphale stopped walking and shook his head. “Not that there was an actual Mr. Harrison. I mean— _How?_ ”

“Rude,” muttered Crowley. “I just used the old demonic charms. And maybe a little bit of blackmail and hypnosis.”

“What a perfect love story.”

“Oh, don’t start. It was for work.”

At least now he knew Crowley didn’t need condolences. “I meant how, logistically? You’re a demon. You can’t even enter a church!”

“I can.” Crowley grimaced. “It just hurts. Had to rush through the ceremony. The chapel was only a little consecrated, anyway.”

Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s arm to rub his temples with both hands. A demonic wedding was a little too much to imagine. “But—marriage is a very holy thing, Crowley. A solemn union, the two as one flesh—”

“Oh, we skipped that part. That’s where the hypnosis came in.”

“—In the sight of God—”

“She didn’t say anything.”

Aziraphale touched Crowley’s arm to try to make her turn towards him. “You really stood there, in a consecrated building, in front of a clergyman, and got _married?”_

“Yeah.” Crowley had the nerve to actually sound proud of herself. “Wasn’t easy, I can tell you that. Getting married is hard nowadays, since they’ve changed the law.”

“Why?”

“Dunno, something about preventing irresponsible—”

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s arm. _“Why did you get married?”_

Crowley cleared her throat and eased her arm out of Aziraphale’s grip. “For work, I told you. I needed the Harrison fortune and estate.” She waved around the room. “Now practically all the single men in London are scheming to get my money. That means competition and jealousy. Probably guilt, too, since they’re targeting a grieving widow.” She drew her face together in an unconvincing pout.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together in a straight line of disapproval. “So you coerced this Mr. Harrison into marrying you, hypnotized him into leaving you his fortune and estate—”

“No, actually, that’s the one part that didn’t take any hypnosis.” Pride crept into her voice again. “He just really hated the brother it would have gone to otherwise. It wouldn’t be legally binding if he wasn’t in his right mind.”

“And then, what, you disposed of him?”

“Trust me, nobody’s going to miss him. Made a lot of shady business deals, and bribes, and such. Ruined several young women’s reputations and got off scot-free, that sort of thing. And, let’s not forget, left his estate to his wife instead of his brother out of spite. Entitled sort of prat. Pretty much had a one-way ticket downstairs.”

Aziraphale probably should have argued that Mr. Harrison ought to have had the opportunity to redeem himself, but he did always take a certain satisfaction from watching unpleasant people get what they deserved. “I still can’t believe you had a sham wedding,” he muttered.

“Oi, the wedding itself was real!”

“Marriage is a _sacred union,_ ” Aziraphale said. “Not something you do for—for work, to get someone’s fortune.”

“Like nobody else has ever married for money before. And, like I said, it was all perfectly legal.”

“And the murder?”

Crowley let out an affronted gasp. “Why, Mr. Fell! My husband died of a _heart attack._ Three separate doctors confirmed it. It was a natural death, if very sudden.”

“How tragic.”

“I was with him when he died, you know.”

“I’ll bet you were.”

“And I’ve been inconsolable ever since.” Crowley gestured at her mourning attire, then looked around the room with a grimace. “Been delaying coming out of half-mourning, actually. All the idiots who want my fortune will be on me like wolfhounds. They barely give me a moment’s peace as it is.”

“Well, you’ll have no trouble from me in that quarter.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s arm and started walking again. “It’s well known that I’ll be a lifelong bachelor.”

“Good choice. Can’t recommend married life. And I only had to put up with it for a few months.” She frowned and nodded at a woman who had looked over and was now studying the both of them, apparently trying to decide what to make of the pair of them. “D’you know her?”

“Yes, in fact. Come, I’ll introduce you.” Aziraphale waved and led Crowley over to her. “Mrs. Fell!”

Crowley coughed. “Thought you said you were a bachelor.”

“What? Oh, no, this is—My, ah, cousin’s wife. A different—Arthur Fell is his name. This is—” Aziraphale sighed, painfully aware of how badly he was flubbing the introduction. He had always had trouble following those etiquette books, and it didn’t help that humans kept changing them. “Er, let me start over. Mrs. Fell, this is Mrs. Harrison, a very old friend of mine.”

Mrs. Fell, who had waited with a gracious smile, bobbed her head in greeting. “I believe we’ve seen each other before, though we haven’t been introduced. You were at Sir Fowler’s dinner party last week, weren’t you?”

“Yes, in fact. He has such a lovely home here in the city.” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale. “You said Mrs. Fell here is your cousin…?”

“Ah, yes. We think. Long story.” Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried to look less awkward, even though he knew it was impossible. “Oh, I think I see Mr. Fell over there. The other Mr. Fell, that is. You ought to meet him, too.”

He led Crowley to a different corner of the room, but Arthur disappeared before they got there, and Aziraphale had no idea where he’d gotten to. Crowley’s suitors were still watching her and Aziraphale walking together, and the attention made him squirm.

Someone cleared his throat behind them, and Aziraphale turned to see a man who he was certain he’d seen somewhere before. The man smiled at Crowley and bowed. “Mrs. Harrison, will you do me the honor of this dance?”

Crowley smiled back to humor him, but said, “Thank you, Sir Davies, but as you can see, I am otherwise engaged at the moment.”

Sir Davies took a moment to glare at Aziraphale before he bowed and withdrew.

“I thought you were meant to be wiling and tempting,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Yeah, well, I’m probably making them all impatient, anyway, and that’s bound to lead to trouble. You mentioned you’re a known bachelor? I bet they hate it that I’m talking to the least eligible man in the room.” Crowley watched as the dancers partnered up, and grinned. “Hey, what if you danced with me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Dance with me.” Crowley angled her head towards the dance floor. “C’mon, it’ll drive them nuts. Can’t be bothered to spare a dance for Sir Davies or any of the others who want my fortune, but I can spend the whole night with a random bookseller?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes with a little huff. “Good to know I’m just a ‘random bookseller’.”

“Wh—No, to _them._ Obviously not to me, angel.” Crowley cleared her throat impatiently. “Are you going to dance with me or not?”

“Absolutely not. You know I don’t dance.” Aziraphale held up his cane, which had a tendency to appear in his hand only when he needed the excuse. “You remember my old injury.”

Crowley gave the cane a doubtful look.

Aziraphale sighed and lowered his hand, which was empty again. “You know I’ll look ridiculous, and then you’ll look ridiculous. I’ll not make a fool of you, my dear.”

Crowley frowned, but didn’t press any more. “Guess I should probably dance with one or two of these guys at some point, anyway. Not that I’m not keen on tempting them, mind,” she added hurriedly. “But it does get a little old.”

Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have to suffer through the advances of someone like Mr. Barnett, much less pretend to be receptive.

Crowley suddenly straightened. “Oh, come over here. There’s someone you’ve got to meet.”

Aziraphale let Crowley lead him over to a cheerful-looking young woman who had just finished a dance. Crowley didn’t often make friends with humans, but when he did, the attachment ran deep. The last time Aziraphale had seen him so excited to introduce a friend, it had been that brilliant Italian artist who had been kind enough to sketch the both of them.

The young woman smiled when she saw Crowley approaching. “You managed to pry yourself away from your admirers, I see. Or most of them, anyway.”

“All of them, thank S—Someone.” Crowley waved Aziraphale over. “Miss Henrietta Page, I’d like to introduce Mr. Fell, a very old friend of mine. Miss Page and her family live near my estate in the South Downs,” he added to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiled and bowed. “Any friend of Mrs. Harrison’s is a friend of mine.”

“Likewise.” Miss Page was still smiling, but seemed to be trying to decide what she thought of him. “When did you and Mrs. Harrison meet?”

“Oh, a very long time ago.” Aziraphale glanced at Crowley. “I’m not sure I can recall the exact circumstances.”

“I was out in the rain without an umbrella,” Crowley said, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “Mr. Fell was kind enough to lend me his.”

“Oh—Yes, that’s right,” said Aziraphale, taken aback. He fought down a smile at the memory of their first meeting, and the fact that Crowley had remembered. “I, um, I run a bookshop in Soho,” he said, in case Miss Page might start getting the idea that he was someone of consequence.

“How interesting.” Aziraphale had heard that line delivered in a patronizing tone often enough to appreciate the fact that Miss Page appeared to mean it. “I’m a governess. Well, if I can find someone to take me on. Mrs. Harrison was kind enough to bring me along on her trip to London so that I may look for work.”

“Mrs. Harrison is always so generous.” Aziraphale paused for a moment to enjoy watching Crowley squirm under the implication that she had good qualities. “Just look at how faithful she is to her late husband.”

Miss Page adopted a sorrowful expression. “His death was very sudden.”

Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. “These things often are. I’m sure he’s in a better place now.”

“He’s not,” said Crowley. “No need for that. We all know that heart attack was a real stroke of luck for me.”

“You always did have the luck of the devil,” Aziraphale muttered.

“He got what was coming to him,” Miss Page told Aziraphale, lowering her voice. “I call it divine justice.”

“Do you?” Aziraphale glanced at the demon and raised his eyebrows.

Miss Page’s eyes widened. “I hope you don’t think I’m suggesting—”

“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale, holding up his hands. “It was most definitely a heart attack.”

Mis Page smiled in relief. She seemed to have made up her mind about him. “It’s been pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fell,” she said with a curtsy, “but I believe they’re starting a new dance soon, and I’d hate to miss it. We don’t get nearly enough balls in the country.”

“That would suit me better, I think,” Aziraphale admitted. “Drop by my bookshop and say hello, if you’re ever in Soho. It has my name on it.”

“I hope I do.” Miss Page took leave of them and went to find a partner.

“She seems amiable,” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah, nice girl,” said Crowley. “Hetty listens to all the gossip at these parties while I wile and tempt, and then fills me in afterwards. She’s my little accomplice.”

Aziraphale nodded. Miss Page seemed one of the more harmless accomplices Crowley had dealt with over the years. “She knew the late Mr. Harrison?”

Crowley nodded, grimacing. “Wasn’t fond of him. He, ah. Embarrassed a friend of hers, to put it tactfully. Well, her friend’s sister, and the whole family by extension.”

“Oh, dear. I hope they were alright.”

Instead of answering, Crowley made a vague noise. “At least he had to face some consequences, even if it was in the afterlife.”

Aziraphale started as a man who he recognized as Mr. Jenkins, another friend of Arthur’s, appeared in front of them. He smiled and bowed, extending one hand. “Mrs. Harrison, you look lovely as ever. Will you join me for this dance?”

Crowley gave him the same empty smile she had given all her suitors this evening. “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins, but I am currently in conversation with my friend here.”

Mr. Jenkins shot a sharp look at Aziraphale, though he didn’t stop smiling. “It’s hardly fair for Mr. Fell to keep such a charming woman all to himself,” he said in a joking tone. “Surely you would not deprive the present company the joy of seeing your dancing?”

Aziraphale, who had seen Crowley’s dancing and considered it more of an embarrassment than a joy, struggled not to laugh. “You simply must dance before the night is out,” he reminded Crowley, and brandished his cane. “And I can hardly make you a suitable partner.”

Crowley shot an annoyed, sarcastic smile at Aziraphale. “Indeed, Mr. Jenkins, I would be delighted.”

Grinning smugly to himself, Aziraphale watched Mr. Jenkins lead Crowley to the dance floor. It should be interesting watching Crowley’s suitors attempt to complement her dancing once they had seen her in action. Her movements tended to be considerably wider than necessary, which often resulted in her ending up in the wrong spot or switching places with a neighbor. Aziraphale was perfectly aware that he wasn’t one to judge, but that didn’t stop him from looking on in amusement.

“Enjoying yourself, Mr. Fell?” said a familiar, jolly voice.

Aziraphale turned round. “Oh, Arthur! Yes, quite.” It was the same thing he always said at these events, but tonight it was truer than usual. “I was looking for you earlier. I’d hoped to introduce you to Mrs. Harrison.” He waved towards the line of dancers, where Crowley was taking her place. “But she is occupied now.”

“Yes, I did notice you speaking with her.” Arthur lowered his voice a fraction. “Mr. Fell, are you certain it’s wise to encourage her like that?”

Aziraphale’s forehead crinkled. “Encourage…I’m sorry?”

“Well, when there’s no hope for her…” Arthur blinked at him. “Oh, my apologies. Am I to understand that you have reconsidered your thoughts on marriage?”

Aziraphale shook his head. Arthur wasn’t making any sense. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning.”

Glancing around, Arthur cleared his throat and lowered his voice further. “Very well. You two appeared very…close, while you were speaking. You paid her a lot of attention. As Mrs. Harrison is currently unattached, this could give rise to certain expectations of your intentions.”

Aziraphale stared at him, and then burst into laughter. “Oh, dear Lord,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “You thought that I was attempting to court her!”

“I’m sure you didn’t intend to give that impression,” said Arthur hurriedly. “But your behavior was, well, hardly discouraging.”

“My _behavior_ —?” Aziraphale nearly doubled over. “No, Mrs. Harrison and I are very close friends, that’s all. We’ve known each other a long time.”

Arthur nodded with understanding. “Still, I think it might be wise to make that clear to her. It would be cruel to give the lady false hope.”

“Oh, I doubt that will be an issue.” The laughter finally died out, and Aziraphale straightened, still chuckling. The very idea of him as some sort of rake who wooed women and then broke their hearts! He’d have to tell Crowley about this.

Arthur looked doubtful. “Best make it explicit,” he advised. “She did appear more…open, I suppose, with you than with any of the men I’ve seen try to secure her hand.”

Aziraphale didn’t doubt that, considering how relieved Crowley had been to see a friend. “Believe me, Mrs. Harrison has no false hopes where I am concerned.”

* * *

Once Crowley left Aziraphale’s side, the rest of the party was exhausting. She had been obligated to dance four times, and only one of her partners had been any good. She found a few brief escapes talking to women or married couples, but the suitors always found her and dragged her away so they could flatter her and brag about their social class and glare at each other. As usual, she encouraged them without giving any tangible hints of her preference, which was for none of them. Aziraphale came by for another welcome, but brief, conversation, just before he left early. He preferred the quiet of the bookshop, he said, and Crowley almost asked if she could go with him.

Instead, she stayed until only a handful of people were left, and then went to find Hetty so they could leave. “I’m exhausted,” said Hetty as they climbed into Crowley’s landau to return to the boarding-house where they were lodged. “I must have danced half the night.”

“Any decent partners?” Crowley asked.

“There was a Mr. Bates who was cordial,” she said doubtfully as she sat down across from Crowley. She had come to London to find work, but her mother had pointedly observed that she would not be amiss to look for a husband as well. At least one of the Page sisters would need to marry well, considering their situation, but he didn’t see why it needed to be Hetty.

“Well, my little accomplice,” said Crowley, as the horses started trotting, and the wagon pulled away. “What have you heard tonight?”

Hetty grinned. “You were the talk of the party, of course.”

“As always.” Crowley nodded with fake modesty. “I think showing up late really got their attention. D’you hear anything about that?”

“At first, certainly,” said Hetty, “but I think they forgot about that as soon as you started talking to Mr. Fell.”

Crowley grinned and leaned back to lounge against the seat. “Thought that might throw them for a loop.”

“Yes, indeed.” Half of Hetty’s mouth twisted up slyly. “I asked around about him. You know, they used to say he would never marry.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, and then frowned. “Used to?”

“Well, I think their minds changed when they saw the two of you together.”

Crowley stopped moving. Behind her dark glasses, she blinked very slowly. Then she turned to look out the window and scoffed. “They come up with the wildest things, don’t they.”

“I agree with them,” Hetty added.

Crowley jumped as if the landau had hit a very large bump that only affected her side of the box. “What!”

“I said I agree with them,” said Hetty. “He looked at you like a man in love. You didn’t notice?”

Crowley rubbed her face with her hands. That was patently impossible. Aziraphale hadn’t looked at her any differently than usual, which brought up a whole slew of other questions and implications that Crowley did her best to shove to the back of her mind. “He’s not,” she said. “What else did you hear, Hetty?”

She looked far more smug than she had any right to be. “I also asked around about why people think Mr. Fell will never marry, and there are several theories.”

“Are there.”

“One is that he’s not fond of women, if you understand me. Though it seems there’s at least one woman—”

“Will you _leave off_ with that,” Crowley snapped. “Mr. Fell is not in love with me.”

Hetty raised her eyebrows doubtfully. “The other theory, which has been rapidly gaining support, is that Mr. Fell was in love in his youth, and has yet to move past those old feelings.” She looked at Crowley significantly.

Crowley looked back blankly for a moment, and then groaned and tipped her head back when she realized what Hetty was trying to imply. “Did you do anything but gossip about Mr. Fell all evening?”

“Yes,” said Hetty. “I danced a lot in between the gossiping. And sometimes during.”

“Lovely,” said Crowley, desperate for a change of subject. “And how was that? Any decent partners?”

“You already asked me that,” she said, amused. She hadn’t stopped smirking since the subject of Mr. Fell had come up. She tilted her head and considered Crowley. “Shall I tell you what I think, Mrs. Harrison?”

“Is there any chance you won’t?”

“I think you’re in love with Mr. Fell, too,” she said. “And I’m inclined to believe you’d be very happy together. You can’t fault me for taking an interest in the happiness of my very dear friend.”

Crowley sighed and rubbed her eyes under her sunglasses. This was not at all how the evening was supposed to go. It was supposed to be another party like all the rest, stringing along men trying to gain her fortune, and possibly being branded as cold-hearted whenever one of them got impatient. She wasn’t supposed to come away with accusations of—of being _in love_ — “I’ll thank you to leave my own happiness to myself, Hetty.”

“If you insist,” said Hetty. “Did you have any decent dancing partners this evening?”

Crowley shook her head. Not that she hadn’t tried for one, but Aziraphale had refused. Which, considering the rumors they had both unwittingly started, was probably for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale discuss the rumors they unwittingly started, and come to an agreement about what to do about them.

Crowley didn’t see Aziraphale at the next couple of balls and dinner parties, although she certainly heard enough speculation about him. Several of her suitors made not-so-subtle comments about the importance of marrying within one’s social stratum, and how much more suitable a match they would be than some unnamed people of her acquaintance. One man used the word “inferior,” and she cursed him with damp shoes and socks for the rest of the week. She ought to be preserving her miracles, but she didn’t know how much longer she could stand to hear Aziraphale be insulted. He had made a lot of enemies when he took Crowley’s arm that evening. Hopefully, if they did bump into each other again, the angel would have the presence of mind to act a little more distant.

Apparently not. When Aziraphale saw her across the room at another ball a week later, his face lit up with his usual warm smile, and he crossed the room directly towards her. “There you are, my dear,” he said when he reached her, ignoring the man subtly bragging to her about how many windows his manor had. “Do you always arrive so late?”

“Mr. Fell,” said Crowley, smiling through her teeth and curtsying. “Good to see you again. Have you met Mr. Watson?” she asked, gesturing at the man.

“It’s Watkins, actually—”

“He was just telling me a very interesting story about windows,” Crowley went on. “Weren’t you, Mr. Watson?”

He accepted the incorrect name with an awkward smile. “Yes, I was just saying they’re dreadfully difficult to keep clean. My manor has _so_ many windows. A hundred, at least. More than I can count.”

Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. “I’m very sorry to hear that you can’t count past one hundred.”

Crowley hiccupped out a laugh. She couldn’t help it.

The man shot her a glance, then turned back to Aziraphale with a tight smile. “And what about your estate, Mr. Fell? Does it have many windows?”

“Oh, no, I’m afraid I can’t commiserate with you on the difficulties of window-cleaning. In fact, I never clean mine at all.”

Mr. Watkins laughed. “Ah, you mean you have your servants clean them, of course. So do I, naturally. If I was cleaning Hemsfield’s windows myself, I’d never have time to do anything else.”

“No, nobody cleans my windows,” said Aziraphale, frowning. “And I don’t own an estate. I live above my bookshop, in—”

“Okay,” Crowley cut in. Aziraphale was just going to open himself up to more ridicule if he kept on like this. He didn’t appear to mind, but Crowley would have to listen to all the snide comments behind his back, and she minded very much. “Mr. Fell, could I have a quick word?”

Aziraphale walked with her to a corner of the room. Behind her sunglasses, she glanced around the room. “Could you, er, keep them from hearing us?”

The angel frowned. Crowley felt the attention that was on them lift. “Why couldn’t you do that, my dear?”

“Boss capped my miracle allotment. And by the way, could you not, uh, call me that, while we’re here?”

Aziraphale’s confusion deepened.

“Just—‘my dear’ might give some people ideas. You know how humans are.” Crowley couldn’t believe she was asking Aziraphale to show less affection to her, but apparently that was what the world had come to.

“I call everyone ‘my dear,’” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure they’ll think nothing of it.”

Right. It wasn’t like the endearment meant anything. Crowley cringed. “Okay, here’s the thing. Apparently— _apparently_ —you and I started some rumors the other night. On accident.” She watched Aziraphale’s face closely, but the angel seemed to be waiting for him to go on. “Uh, they say you’ve…well, thrown your hat in the ring. With regards to, y’know.” She swallowed, held up her left hand, and tapped the place where a wedding ring would go.

Aziraphale blinked. “They think I’m…interested?”

Crowley nodded. She wanted to sink into the floor.

“Well, that doesn’t make any sense. Everyone knows I don’t intend to marry. I mean, I’d heard that you…” He looked up at Crowley and trailed off. “Er, nevermind.”

“You’d heard I what?”

Aziraphale glanced around, even though he’d already made sure nobody would overhear them. “After our last meeting, I was cautioned against giving you false hope.” He cleared his throat. “Some people believe you were quite receptive to my supposed advances.”

“They—Wh—” Crowley had hoped Hetty was the only person who had noticed. Except wait, no, there hadn’t even been any actual courtship. “But that—that doesn’t make any more sense than you. We were just talking.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows a fraction. “Well, you did snub a number of other men while you were with me.”

“You’re the one who _kissed my hand!_ ” Crowley hissed. “The heaven was that about? Looks like we’re bloody engaged.”

Aziraphale’s glance flitted away in embarrassment. “Ah. In my defense, that used to be a much more common greeting between gentlemen and ladies. But that’s still done sometimes between close friends, isn’t it?” he added, looking up. “And you told them we’d known each other since childhood.”

“Nuh, I think our fake history’s just added fuel to the fire.” Crowley considered sharing Hetty’s speculated reason that Mr. Fell had remained single, and decided firmly against it.

Aziraphale’s hands fidgeted, but he didn’t look particularly anxious. “Alright. So, God only knows why, but the popular opinion is that we’re, um, courting.” He glanced up. “And that’s a problem?”

Why the question mark? Obviously it was a problem. Crowley opened her mouth to explain why it would be uncomfortable or inconvenient or otherwise bad for people to think she and Aziraphale were in love, but found she couldn’t come up with any tangible reason. She’d expected Aziraphale to react much more strongly against it. “Isn’t it?”

Aziraphale’s brow crinkled. “I assumed it was interrupting your demonic plan. Was that not why you wanted to tell me this?”

“No, actually. Still plenty of jealousy and competition, it’s just all directed at you now.” She studied Aziraphale through the dark lenses. “It doesn’t, I dunno, make you uncomfortable?”

“Well, it isn’t true. Humans come up with all sorts of ideas. They’ll figure it out soon enough on their own.” He tilted his head. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

Crowley couldn’t honestly say that she disliked the idea that people might look at her and Aziraphale and see two people with mutual romantic interest in each other. Even if, as Aziraphale had pointed out, it wasn’t true. “Guess not.”

Aziraphale looked relieved. “That’s good. Because I don’t know where they got the idea, and I confess I’m not sure how we could put a stop to it.”

Crowley frowned. “So, wait, you’re saying we shouldn’t do anything?”

“I don’t see the need, as long as there’s no harm in it,” said Aziraphale. “I daresay you could use a break from speaking with your admirers now and again.”

Aziraphale didn’t know the half of it. Actually, it might be better if they let the rumors carry on. So far, when Crowley heard Aziraphale disparaged, she bit her tongue, because rising to his defense would confirm the rumors. If she knew Aziraphale didn’t care, she could tell them off freely. Plus, if it was believed that she already had her eye on someone, she might not be swamped with proposals when she came out of half-mourning. And she did like the idea of offending all those rich entitled pricks by appearing to court someone they saw as only a random bookseller.

“Actually, um.” Crowley couldn’t believe she was about to ask this. “Might be convenient for a lot of reasons. Plus it’ll really piss those bastards off. I don’t suppose, as part of the Arrangement, you’d do me a favor, and, er…”

She couldn’t tell whether or not she was imagining the fact that Aziraphale’s eyes were slightly wider than usual. “Encourage them, you mean?”

Crowley bit her lip and nodded.

To her relief, Aziraphale smiled. “Well, considering that we did nothing but talk in order to start the rumors, I don’t think that’s much of a favor to ask. We probably wouldn’t even need to do anything differently.”

“Right, yeah, exactly. Just let humans be humans, and extrapolate their wild stories.” Crowley took a small breath. “I owe you one, though.”

“You certainly don’t. Speaking to you is hardly a trial, Crowley. In fact, I find I enjoy these events far more when you’re present.”

Crowley couldn’t help the corner of her mouth turning up in a smile. “Yeah, I know,” she said, instead of something involving the word “mutual.” “So you’re okay helping with a demonic scheme?”

“I don’t really see how this will help your scheme. If anything, it seems it would bring the negative feelings to a close sooner.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t think my scheme is evil enough?”

“Not the revised scheme, no,” Aziraphale said with an apologetic look. “If you give those men the impression that you’ve already chosen, I imagine they’ll get over their jealousy soon enough.”

“And then they’ll seethe with resentment for years.”

Aziraphale shot her a doubtful glance. “ _Years,_ Crowley, really?”

“What, you don’t think I’m seethe-worthy? Have you know all sorts of people’ve seethed over me for various durations of time.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I predict that, when they realize they don’t have your favor, they’ll let the competition go. They might even be glad for you,” he added with a smug grin. “And perhaps the experience will humble them, and cause them to rethink their behavior towards women they wish to woo.”

Crowley made a face. “You always gave humans too much credit.”

“You give them too little,” Aziraphale countered. “Are you so certain of your success that you think adding a literal angel to the mix won’t interrupt your plans?” He raised his eyebrows. Was that a challenge?

Crowley tilted her head and considered him for a moment. “You’re awfully certain you’ll win. Should we make this interesting?”

Aziraphale smirked. “Loser buys the other dinner?”

“I’ll buy you dinner, if I lose,” said Crowley. “And _when_ I win, you will buy me the most expensive bottle of scotch you can find.”

“That’s a rather tall order for a ‘random bookseller,’ don’t you think?” Aziraphale held out a hand. “Very well, I agree to your terms.”

Crowley shook his hand. She had no idea how they were going to measure success, but arguing over it afterwards was half the fun. “Then let’s inspire some jealousy, angel.”

Aziraphale took her arm and they walked around the perimeter of the room. Crowley could feel mental daggers being shot at Aziraphale, and would have glowered back if that had been at all ladylike. Across the room, Hetty saw the two of them and smirked. Crowley scowled back and motioned for her to turn her gaze elsewhere.

“This really is a magnificent hall,” said Aziraphale, looking around at the striped wallpaper, the neoclassical arches and the high, glittering chandeliers. “I often find the architecture to be the most interesting aspect of these events.” He glanced at Crowley with a smile. “Apart from, quite recently, the company.”

Crowley made a vague noise of agreement. Across the hall, the quartet that had been hired for the evening finished tuning and prepared to start playing. Hetty was talking to some young man, who extended his hand and gestured to the open floor. Crowley nudged Aziraphale. “Does this new agreement mean you’ll dance with me?”

“Under no circumstances.”

Crowley sulked and muttered, “Some gentleman you are.”

“If you’d like to dance, I’m sure you’d have no trouble finding a suitable partner.”

“I want to see _you_ dance, _Mr. Fell._ ”

“You know perfectly well that I’ve never danced in my life, and I don’t intend to start now, _Mrs. Harrison._ ”

“Sorry to interrupt,” said an unreasonably loud voice behind them. “Mr. Fell, might I have a quick word?”

Crowley turned around. She was pretty sure she didn’t recognize the man who was standing there. Surely she’d remember such an obnoxious smile.

“Ah.” Aziraphale forced a smile and let go of Crowley’s arm. “Of course.” He nodded an apology at Crowley and withdrew a short distance away.

Crowley tried to watch them without making it obvious that she was watching. She should have expected some of her suitors to come up with the idea of separating her and her companion, but it had only been a few minutes since they had first started talking. The man’s infuriating smile never wavered as he moved his hands in what looked like apology and shot the occasional glance towards Crowley. Surely this wasn’t the other Mr. Fell, Aziraphale’s “cousin”? He didn’t look like anyone Crowley would want to meet.

“Good day to you, Mrs. Harrison,” said a honeyed voice so close that Crowley jumped to get away from it. “Would you do me the honor of—”

“I’m not dancing tonight,” Crowley interrupted, with her most deterrent smile. “Terribly sorry.” The man who’d asked grimaced and slunk away.

Aziraphale was bringing the other man back over. “Mrs. Harrison,” he said, with the impish smile that meant he was up to no good. “I’m delighted to be able to introduce you to Mr. Barnett, a relation of my cousin’s.”

So the man had been angling for an introduction. Crowley curtseyed about a quarter as deeply as the man bowed. “Charmed,” she said in a tone which suggested that she wasn’t.

Aziraphale tucked his hands behind his back and bounced on his feet. “You will be relieved to know that Mr. Barnett has no interest whatsoever in your fortune, Mrs. Harrison, or your hand in marriage. Isn’t that right, Mr. Barnett?”

“Er.” Mr. Barnett’s eye twitched. “I believe what I said was that my friends and I should leave the grieving widow in peace.” He nodded to Crowley. “My deepest condolences for your husband. You would be appalled at the manner of some of the unmarried men here.”

“I certainly would,” said Crowley flatly.

“No, I distinctly remember you saying earlier that you did not wish to pursue Mrs. Harrison’s hand in marriage,” Aziraphale pushed. “We discussed it just the other night, remember? You listed numerous reasons. At one point, I recall you suggesting that Mrs. Harrison was not suitable for—”

“My cousin does me a disservice,” Mr. Barnett interrupted, with an panicked and apologetic look at Crowley. “And I believe he gravely misunderstood our previous conversation. I meant no insult.”

“None taken,” said Crowley. “In fact, I’m relieved to speak with someone so thoroughly disinterested in my fortune. The feeling is entirely mutual.”

Mr. Barnett did not seem to know what to do, so he laughed. “Mrs. Harrison, you are…a most _amusing_ woman.”

“Why, thank you,” said Crowley, with a pleasant smile, “but I’m afraid I’m not half so amusing as yourself. And you appear to have the rare gift of mastering the skill with no effort at all.”

“Excuse me.” Mr. Barnett bowed with a tight-lipped smile and fled from the conversation.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other and burst into restrained laughter. Crowley covered her mouth and chortled into one hand. Aziraphale was hugging himself and giggling. “Oh, that was excellent,” he said. “The look on his face—!”

“Did he really do that? Tell everyone else why I’d make an awful wife?”

“He did! It was so transparent—You saw how he practically begged me for an introduction. Me, the lowly bookseller! You should have heard how he flattered me.”

Crowley grinned. This was _fun._ She and Aziraphale could double-team any obnoxious men who bothered them, and she no longer needed to encourage their attentions. She didn’t even have to talk to them, if she didn’t want to, and they still glared at each other with the same enmity she’d been trying to inspire before. Well, actually, they mostly glared at Aziraphale.

Clearing her throat, Crowley lowered her voice. “You sure you’re okay with this, Aziraphale? They’re not going to like you.” She hesitated before adding, “They already talk about you behind your back.”

Aziraphale had no right to smile so softly at her. “It’s very thoughtful of you to worry about my reputation, dear, but I never had much of one to begin with. And I don’t particularly care what men like that say about me.”

Well, but Crowley was the one who had to listen to it. She’d just have to make it clear that she wasn’t interested in hearing any disparaging words about Mr. Fell. There was something tremendously freeing in being able to walk around with Aziraphale in public, and defend her angel when he wasn’t around, and know that Aziraphale didn’t mind the conclusions people might draw. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Aziraphale looked around the room eagerly. “Now, who shall be our next target?”

* * *

With Crowley at his side, Aziraphale held out far longer than usual before he got tired of the party and started to miss his armchair. He bade Crowley farewell and pretended not to notice the way people watched him as he left. He was unaccustomed to this much attention. His connection to the esteemed Mrs. Harrison had given him a sort of celebrity status, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, especially when Crowley wasn’t there to distract him.

“Mr. Fell!” The other two Fells, Arthur and Jane, caught him at the doorway. “Heading home for the night?”

“Ah—Yes, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale didn’t think he had ever left a party at the same time as the Fells. He considered it something of an accomplishment.

“So are we,” said Jane. “Will you share a coach with us? We can take you to Soho before going on.”

Aziraphale smiled. “That’s very kind of you. If you have room, that would be splendid.”

The coach did have room for him, in the sense that an egg carton had room for twelve eggs, and nothing else. Aziraphale sat squashed against one window, trying to think small thoughts. Arthur and Jane didn’t appear to mind, but they had an endless tolerance for all sorts of uncomfortable things, like dancing, or Mr. Barnett’s company.

“Did you enjoy the evening, I hope?” said Arthur.

Aziraphale smiled and nodded.

“The…company pleased you?”

He’d spent nearly the entire time with Crowley, which he doubted the Fells had failed to notice. “Yes, very much.”

The Fells exchanged a glance. Arthur cleared his throat. “Mr. Fell, you recall what I said to you when we last spoke on the subject of Mrs. Harrison?”

Aziraphale had a feeling they would end up here sooner or later. He had been expecting it to be slightly later. “Yes, I remember quite clearly.”

“I don’t mean to accuse you of anything, of course,” he said. “I only hope to avoid any misunderstandings before they happen. But it appeared to me this evening that you had not, er…kept my advice in mind.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Mr. Fell,” he said in an affronted tone. “Surely you don’t believe me the sort of man who would intentionally give a lady an exaggerated impression of my regard for her.”

“Not intentionally, of course,” Mr. Fell said hurriedly. “I meant nothing of the kind—”

Jane shushed him and bent to look at Aziraphale again. “Are we to understand,” she asked slowly, “that the impression you gave her was not exaggerated?”

Aziraphale hesitated. He and Crowley had agreed that they wouldn’t need to do anything differently to encourage the rumors, which should have meant he didn’t have to lie about it. They had also agreed to let them go on for as long as possible so that Crowley wouldn’t have to talk to or flirt with anyone she didn’t want to, and to see their bet through to the end. And actively pretending he wanted to marry his best friend would not be the worst thing in the world. “I can’t speak to the specific impression Mrs. Harrison had, but, er…perhaps my intentions have changed.”

Jane let out a delighted cry and covered her mouth with her hands. Arthur’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline, but he grinned broadly. “That’s marvelous!” He tried to reach around to slap Aziraphale on the shoulder, but there wasn’t room enough for him to move his arm, so he settled for an awkward nudge. “You are speaking of marriage, yes? I always hoped you might come around to the idea. It isn’t right for a man to be lonely.”

Aziraphale nodded and tried to smile. He probably looked just as embarrassed as they expected, but for very different reasons than they imagined. “I wouldn’t describe myself as lonely, exactly,” he muttered.

“You will make such a splendid pair!” Jane gushed. “Your stations may be drastically different, but Mrs. Harrison certainly seems enough in love to overcome that small obstacle.”

“And such a match would improve your situation greatly,” said Mr. Fell. “I’m happy for you, dear cousin.”

“W-well, nothing is certain yet,” Aziraphale stammered. All he had done was hint at an interest, and the Fells were acting as if he were already engaged. Perhaps they had forgotten how much competition he would have for Mrs. Harrison’s hand, and the fact that he was just a bookseller with hardly anything to recommend him. And, for heaven’s sake, all he and Crowley had done was _talk._

Jane winked. “The only uncertainty, I think, is a question of time and place.”

What on Earth had they seen that had them so convinced? He’d assumed the party guests were just pairing up friends of the opposite gender, as they often did. Arthur had suggested that Crowley had a preference for him, but here Jane was swearing that Crowley…

He and Crowley had known each other for a very long time, that was all. They must be picking up on the familiarity of thousands of years.

“It’s, er, a bit soon, I think,” said Aziraphale with a nervous laugh. “Best not to…to rush into these things.”

“Quite right,” said Arthur. “But remember, a lady does not like to be kept waiting.”

He and Jane shared a conspiratorial laugh that Aziraphale tried to join in on. It was probably a good thing he and Crowley made such a convincing couple. If people were already congratulating them, it wouldn’t be too much longer before Crowley’s suitors gave up the chase. Proving Crowley wrong might be easier than he had thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During this time, England imposed [a tax on the number of windows in a home](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Window_tax), so windows became a status symbol. For some reason, that's hilarious to me, so I decided to turn it into a running gag.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's bookshop receives some unexpected visitors, some of whom are more welcome than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update! New chapters will be posted Sunday and Thursday now :)

Aziraphale was not having a good morning. A wealthy gentleman had stopped by his shop, expressed his disgust at the amount of dust on every flat surface, and was now attempting to purchase an unacceptable fraction of Aziraphale’s collection. He appeared to think he was being generous, and made several sneering comments about how Aziraphale clearly needed the income, and he would not listen when Aziraphale told him that the volume he was currently manhandling was not for sale. Aziraphale was contemplating going into full be-not-afraid mode (it didn’t seem anything less would convince the man to leave) when the bell above the door chimed. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Aziraphale called, hoping the new customers would not try to touch any of his books while he was occupied. “Sir, I really must insist you put that down. It’s fragile, and it can’t take much handling—I’ve already had to repair the spine once—”

“If I buy it, you won’t need to concern yourself with its state of repair.” The man snapped the book shut hard enough to make Aziraphale wince. “Let’s say, hm, ten pounds, for this plus the Donne collection?”

“ _Ten—_ ” Aziraphale bristled. In another plane, his wings prepared to burst forth. He took a step towards the man. “Now look here—”

“He said it’s not for sale,” said a familiar voice. “But you’ve never been good at being told ‘no,’ have you?”

Aziraphale turned, beaming, to see Crowley standing at the end of the bookshelf, with young Miss Page just behind her. “My dears! Oh, it’s lovely to see you both.”

The gentleman’s whole attitude changed when he saw Crowley. “Mrs. Harrison, what a pleasant surprise.” He bowed low, all smiles. “What brings you here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” said Crowley. “I could also ask why you insist on staying where you are clearly not welcome. Mr. Fell told you to put that book away.” Her voice dropped and turned disapproving, almost threatening.

“My mistake.” The man replaced the volume on the shelf and nodded respectfully to Aziraphale. “Just the Donne volumes, then, Mr. Fell. You may name your price.”

“As I told you, they are not for sale,” Aziraphale snapped. “Good day to you.”

The man let out a laugh of disbelief. “Very well, then. If you want to turn away a paying customer, that is your blunder to make.” He walked around the shelf. When he passed Aziraphale, he bent towards him and lowered his voice to a hiss. “Sooner or later, she will see you for what you are, Mr. Fell.” He bowed to Crowley and Miss Page, and left.

Aziraphale exhaled in relief as the door swung shut behind him and turned to his new guests. “Thank you, Mrs. Harrison. I thought he would never leave.”

Crowley glowered at the door after the man. “Are they coming to harass you in your place of work now?”

“Just him,” said Aziraphale. “I appreciate the concern, but as you know, I’ve dealt with my fair share of unpleasant customers.” He smiled at Crowley’s friend. “A pleasure to meet you again, Miss Page. I’m so glad you took up my invitation.”

Miss Page was looking around at the shelves in wonder. “This place is charming. How many books do you have?”

“In total?” Aziraphale blinked. “I’m not certain.”

“An ever-increasing number, surely,” said Crowley, with fond exasperation. “He can’t bear to part with a single volume.”

Miss Page frowned. “Then how—”

“You two must stay for tea,” Aziraphale decided, before Miss Page could ask any probing questions about the source of his income. “Give me just a moment to close up.” As he went to lock the door and flip the sign to closed, he heard Miss Page speculating about whether it was a good idea to close up so early, and Crowley telling her that Mr. Fell’s hours were erratic at the best of times. “Follow me,” he said, reappearing and ushering them into the back room. Usually, that space was reserved for himself and Crowley, but Miss Page was a friend of Crowley’s, so of course she was welcome too. Aziraphale had yet to meet a close friend of Crowley’s that he didn’t like. “Make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll put the kettle on. I think I have some biscuits squirreled away somewhere …”

A quick search through his cupboards revealed more tins of biscuits than he was comfortable admitting to. He pulled out one of them, nibbled a biscuit experimentally to make sure they weren’t stale, and then brought out the full tin to set on the coffee table. “Now,” he said, glancing up with a breathless smile. “How have you two been since—What has it been, two days?”

“We’ve been very well,” said Miss Page, with a smile. “A gentleman I met at the ball was looking for a governess to teach his son. He said he’d consider me.”

“That’s splendid!” Aziraphale performed a small blessing to help the young woman’s chances. “I hope it goes well for you.”

Crowley still looked unsettled. “Has anyone bothered you since the last ball, Az—Mr. Fell? I knew they weren’t going to like you, but—”

“I told you, I don’t care what men like that think of me, especially over an untrue rumor.” He glanced at Miss Page and paused. “Ah, that is…”

“Hetty knows about our plan,” said Crowley. “I filled her in. She’s my gossipmonger, remember?”

“And there has been so much gossip.” Miss Page’s eyes lit up. “Mary Sharpe thinks—”

“Ngk, I doubt he’s interested in what Mary Sharpe thinks,” Crowley interrupted. “Actually, we were brainstorming ways to ratchet up the jealousy, but I’m starting to think we don’t need to.” She glared at the door again as if the gentleman from before was likely to walk in again and demand to buy out the whole shop. Her look indicated that he probably would not survive the attempt.

Aziraphale nodded, remembering Jane’s confidence in the inevitability of his and Crowley’s engagement. “Er…do you think we might have overdone it a bit?”

“Overdone _what?_ We haven’t done anything differently.” Crowley slumped back against the sofa, and then frowned. “Or does that mean you’ve changed your mind?”

“No, I’m just surprised at how carried away the people have gotten with their speculations.

Crowley sighed. “They’re usually a bit like this, when a new man shows up and I’m slightly nicer to him. His odds go up for a while, and then they get tired of it.”

“Odds?” Aziraphale had been under the impression that everyone’s odds with Crowley were zero.

“Oh, yeah, there’s a betting pool,” said Crowley.

“Really?” Aziraphale grinned, amused. “How am I doing?”

“Well, anyway, of course it’s going to be worse with you, since we’re already friends,” Crowley went on. “Plus, they probably like the vastly-different-stations thing.”

“It makes for a good story,” Miss Page put in. “It’s like Cinderella. Very romantic.”

Aziraphale hadn’t thought about it like that before. Everyone liked an underdog story. “But I still can’t work out why they think I’d suddenly changed my mind about marriage.”

“You really don’t plan to marry?” asked Miss Page.

Aziraphale blinked. “No, of course not. I’ve never been the marrying type.”

Crowley mumbled something that sounded like “Told you.”

“I think it may have to do with your familiarity,” said Miss Page. “You two act sometimes like you’re already—Well, you clearly know each other very well,” she finished, with a glance at Crowley.

“Well, of course we’re familiar with each other after nearly six—er—sixty—six _teen_ years.” Aziraphale glanced at Crowley for confirmation that this was a reasonable amount of time for a friendship between mortals. She raised an eyebrow, but that was all.

“That’s another reason it makes for a good story.” Miss page took a biscuit from the tin and bit into it. “Oh, these are delicious.”

Aziraphale was growing to like her more and more. “I get them from a little place just down the street. They always have the best shortbread. Take the rest of the tin when you leave, if you like. I have more.”

Miss Page smiled. “If you really were interested in Mrs. Harrison’s hand, Mr. Fell, I’d be hoping you succeeded. You’re much more pleasant than any of her other suitors.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale beamed. “Thank you, dear girl. That’s very kind of you.”

Crowley cleared her throat loudly. “It’s not really a high bar to meet. I end up with all the gold diggers.”

“The rest give up quickly and try talking to me,” said Miss Page with a frown. “Although some of them were courteous enough, I suppose.”

She didn’t sound sure. Aziraphale doubted she enjoyed being the second choice.

“We’ve been over this, Hetty,” Crowley muttered, barely loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. “You’re not getting engaged here.”

“Oh, was that another reason you came to London?” Aziraphale asked. “I have to agree with Mrs. Harrison. London may have a large number of men to choose from, but quantity does not always imply quality.” From the parties he’d been to, he got the impression that many of London’s single men were still single for a reason. Though, to be fair, he did not remember many of them, so Mr. Barnett made up a large percentage of the ones he did.

Miss Page chuckled, but she clutched her hands together anxiously. “My mother advised me to start looking while I’m in town, but…”

It was quiet for a moment. “S’alright,” Crowley mumbled. “You can trust him, if you want.”

Miss Page cleared her throat. “It’s not a question of quality, Mr. Fell. I don’t think any of those men could make me happy.”

“I see.” Aziraphale looked at her thoughtfully. “Is there, perhaps, another fellow who already has your heart?”

Looking at the ground, Miss Page shook her head minutely. “Not…not a fellow, no.”

Aziraphale caught her meaning and nodded. It was difficult to be like her in this era. Women didn’t get arrested for it, at least, but the poor dear would be miserable if she followed the path set out for her. “Then I doubly agree with Mrs. Harrison. Surely you needn’t make yourself unhappy.”

She gave another anxious laugh that was half a breath of relief. “Thank you. But I’m not blessed with the means of self-sufficiency, like Mrs. Harrison is.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to assure her that these things had a way of working themselves out, particularly when you happened to be friends with two supernatural entities, but the kettle interrupted him. Crowley stood up at the same time that he did, and he waved a hand at her impatiently. “Sit down, you silly thing. You’re a guest.”

As he hurried into the kitchen and poured the tea, Crowley and Miss Page talked in a low mumble behind him. He felt sure that the young lady would be well taken care of, even if Crowley couldn’t explain to her precisely why it wouldn’t be a gamble for her to put off finding a husband. Both he and Crowley hid their true natures from humans as far as it was possible, even from humans they considered friends. Crowley, especially.

“I hope earl grey is alright,” he called, poking his head through the kitchen doorway. “Miss Page, how do you take your tea?”

They both had the guilty look of people caught in a conversation they didn’t want overheard. “Just plain,” said the young woman. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Would you like me to give you two a few minutes to talk, while I hum to myself in here?”

“Nuh, we were just discussing the plan,” said Crowley.

“Is there more planning to do?”

“Yup. Thought it might be good for you to, er, know who you’re up against. Who you might have to deal with invading your shop.”

“That is a good idea.” If Aziraphale knew the chinks in their armor, he would be able to better place his insults. He knew he was supposed to be encouraging positive feelings, but it had been so satisfying when he and Crowley had run off Mr. Barnett that one time. “I’ll get the tea and we can get started.”

* * *

Crowley had only told Hetty about the plan to shut her up, and she still couldn’t decide whether that had been a good decision. Hetty had managed to keep her mouth shut in front of Aziraphale, though she hadn’t been able to resist making a few comments while the angel was in the kitchen, but luckily Aziraphale didn’t seem to have overheard any of that. She was also a gold mine of gossip about Crowley’s suitors, would be invaluable in charting their progress, and could perhaps even serve as the deciding vote in their bet. However, knowing that it was all a ruse did not have the effect on her that Crowley had hoped for. She still had not shut up.

Crowley could feel Hetty smirking at her across the landau for the whole ride back to the boarding-house, but she stared fixedly out the window and refused to acknowledge it. If Crowley made eye contact, or anything that looked like it with her sunglasses on, Hetty would take it as an invitation to start talking, and Crowley was not in the mood for a conversation about—

“You love him,” Hetty said with no warning. “Don’t you?”

Crowley’s spine tensed. “I’ve asked you to leave that subject alone.”

“You haven’t said no,” she said, still smirking. “Everyone can see it.”

“If you’re so certain, you shouldn’t need to ask me.”

“I want you to be honest with me. You trust me, don’t you? I thought we were good enough friends by now.”

Crowley scowled at her. Hetty reminded her of Aziraphale sometimes. He could be a real bastard, too. “I told you—”

“Antonia,” she interrupted. “You know I’d never breathe a word to anyone. I won’t even tell him, if you don’t want me to, although I believe someone should. Just tell me honestly, are you in love with Mr. Fell?”

Crowley turned to glare back out the window. Hetty wasn’t going to let this go, and she had guessed enough that there wasn’t much point in continuing to deny it. With a small sigh, Crowley’s gaze dropped to the corner of the seat in front of her. “Yes.” It was the first time she had admitted it out loud to another person, and the word came out as a quiet hiss. It felt strange to say out loud, after all this time refusing to acknowledge it. Her stomach squirmed, and she didn’t know if it was from excitement or fear. “Yes, alright, I—I love him.”

Hetty took one of Crowley’s hands, forcing her to look up. “Then marry him,” she said urgently, smiling with an excited light in her eyes. “He loves you, too, I’m certain of it. And you would be so happy together. Think of it, the two of you at Rothwell—”

“Hetty—” Crowley pulled her hand away. She tried not to think of it, daily walks and picnics on Rothwell’s emerald grounds, Aziraphale sitting beside her at every meal, the house steeped in the scent of the angel’s favorite earl grey… “We can’t. Even if he—”

“Why not?” she said indignantly. “You’re rich! You have the good fortune of being able to marry whoever you please. Not many women are so lucky, and I’d like to see you end up happy even if I—”

“It’s not that simple!” Crowley burst out. “We can’t have everything. I can’t—” She broke off and rubbed both temples below her sunglasses. The snake tattoo was carefully hidden by a curl of her hair, but it would always be there. “He’d never say yes. His…his family doesn’t approve. Religious differences.”

“Oh.” Hetty’s eyes widened, and she nodded with understanding. “Catholics.”

They carriage rolled on in silence. Neither of them looked at each other.

“It isn’t so bad, really, if I don’t think about it,” said Crowley. “As long as me and him are friends. And I wasn’t planning on remarrying, anyway.”

Hetty nodded and swallowed. “I’m sorry I teased you so much. I feel awful.”

Crowley shrugged. “You can’t be blamed for taking an interest in the happiness of your friend.”

Hetty glanced up in surprise, recognizing her own words. She laughed, but her hands twisted in her lap in a way that reminded Crowley of Aziraphale. “We’re both of us unlucky, aren’t we?”

“Nah,” Crowley said gently. “I have a feeling things will work out for you.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she mumbled.

“Hey, I married for money, and hated every second of it, remember? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” She’d see to it that Hetty and her family would have everything they needed, even if she couldn’t explain how. There was no telling how the young woman would react if she learned what Crowley really was. For now, though, she could pretend to be simply a benevolent friend.

One of them ought to be happy, at least.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley's plan is going extremely well.

Pretending to court Crowley was more fun than Aziraphale had expected. He always enjoyed embarrassing obnoxious men, and it was even more enjoyable to share the experience with Crowley. A few people who had once snubbed Aziraphale, either because of his social status or his awkwardness in society, decided that perhaps they had judged him too harshly on first impressions, if such an esteemed lady had taken notice of him. He pointed out their kinder treatment of him to Crowley as evidence in his favor in their bet. He did occasionally have to put up with men attempting to intimidate and shame him out of associating with Crowley, but then she would come back from wherever she’d wandered off to, hiss at them (usually metaphorically, sometimes literally), and protectively drag Aziraphale away. Aziraphale would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy that, too, a little.

Plus, Crowley’s company made social events infinitely better. There was a reason she had a reputation as such a charming and attractive woman, and her wit positively sparkled in conversation with anyone in the room. It was no wonder she’d been so successful in her temptations so far. It was a pleasure just to watch her enjoy herself. Perhaps she had acquired a keener taste for parties and society since Aziraphale had last seen her.

After they’d been seen together a few times, Crowley finally came out of half-mourning. She seemed far more cheerful once she could wear whatever she pleased, although what pleased her was more black and dark grey, now with the occasional red or gold accent and a wider variety of jewelry. Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether anyone would be able to tell the difference, until several people noted how lovely it was to see Crowley out of mourning garb.

Now that she was visibly available, several of Crowley’s suitors tried hinting that it might be wise of her to find a new master of Rothwell, and that, in a stunning twist of fate, they also happened to be in want of a spouse. Crowley wished them the best of luck finding one and tightened her hold on Aziraphale’s arm. That was usually the point at which they noticed that Aziraphale had been there the whole time, and then stalked off to seethe. Overall, there had been rather more seething than Aziraphale had expected, but he supposed it made sense in light of how wealthy, accomplished, desirable Crowley had made herself out to be.

“You have quite the reputation, you know,” Aziraphale said to her once at a dinner party, after Mr. and Mrs. Haynes had just congratulated him on an outstanding match despite the fact that they still weren’t engaged. “I believe someone told me you speak six languages.”

“I do,” said Crowley. “They were, let me see, English, old English, Latin, Aramaic, Scots…No, don’t look at me like that. I’m counting Scots.”

“But there’s no way you’re up to speed on your Aramaic. When the devil would you practice?”

“I remember a few words,” Crowley protested. “It’d come back to me, if I ever needed to use it.”

“If you ever needed to use ancient Aramaic?”

“It’d come back to me, yes.”

Aziraphale shook his head doubtfully. “And what was the sixth language?”

“Greek, I think. Well, Byzantine Greek.”

Aziraphale nodded. “What a practical set of languages to know.”

Crowley shot him an annoyed look. “If you want to talk about practical, why the deuce do they expect women to learn French? What are we supposed to do with that, hop across the channel and negotiate an end to the current war?”

Aziraphale considered for a moment. “Well, it would be very impressive if you did.”

Crowley scowled for a moment. “Or I could just impress people by, y’know, saying I know six languages.”

“That didn’t impress me very much, my dear.”

“I saved your neck, literally, and you _still_ need me to impress you?”

By that point, they were both laughing, and fighting to hide it. The Haynes’ looked at them and then exchanged a knowing glance, as did the Fells and two of the three Sharpe sisters. Aziraphale politely pretended not to notice.

He also pretended not to notice Mr. Jenkins sulking on the other side of the room. As Crowley’s suitors went, Mr. Jenkins was on the less unpleasant side, though he did lay the flattery on a bit thick, and he had seemed genuinely saddened by Crowley’s lack of interest. Perhaps Aziraphale would track down someone the fellow trusted and plant the idea of having an encouraging heart-to-heart with him to help him move on. Or he could just redirect Mr. Jenkins to the youngest of the Sharpe sisters, who had been trying to catch his eye all evening. They probably wouldn’t last long together, but it would at least distract Mr. Jenkins from any seething he might do instead.

He was just about to walk over and give Mr. Jenkins a nudge in her direction when the doors opened and a small whirlwind of muslin and pearls came in, complaining of the weather and her carriage-driver and how difficult it had been to find the house. “She does this every time,” Crowley told Aziraphale, as Mr. Haynes, the host for the night, hurried over to welcome the newcomer to the party, apologize for the placement of his house, and fervently wish he could have done something about the weather or her driver’s incompetence. “I’ll introduce you,” said Crowley. “If I don’t, she’ll tell everyone I didn’t think you were good enough for her acquaintance.”

The woman had decided, somewhat reluctantly, to accept Mr. Haynes’ apology, and was now looking around at the party guests and narrating aloud her thoughts about them. “…Wouldn’t have come all this way if I’d known it was such a small party,” Aziraphale heard. “And in such weather! The fog was so thick it was practically _drizzling._ ”

“We’re honored that you undertook such pains to join us this evening,” said Mr. Haynes. “I’m afraid we’ve already finished dinner, but perhaps you would do us the honor of a dance?”

“All this way and no dinner?” the woman’s eyes bulged out. “It’s fortunate that I always take an early supper before departing for these sorts of social engagements. This is exactly the sort of circumstance I always fear.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Does she often arrive after dinner?” he whispered.

“After having already eaten, yes,” said Crowley. “Though of course it’s always someone else’s fault that she’s late.”

“Yes, I believe I shall dance, but not until I am sufficiently rested from my journey,” the woman continued. “The _weather_ —! No, for now I will have to content myself with whatever company is present.” Her eyes scanned the room. “Where is Mrs. Harrison? Has she brought this new beau I’ve heard so much about?”

Aziraphale, who had just about decided he wanted nothing to do with this woman, found himself tugged forward by Crowley. “Lady Melweather,” Crowley said, with a curtsey. “How wonderful to see you. Have you met my angel?”

Everyone in the room froze, as did Crowley. Aziraphale thought for a moment that he might have accidentally stopped time, and then Crowley let out a sharp breath and shut her eyes behind the dark lenses. “Sssshit.” She snapped her fingers in front of Lady Melweather’s face.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale glanced around to confirm that all the human guests were frozen.

“Don’t,” Crowley warned him.

It was too late. Aziraphale couldn’t hide his amusement. “Did you just wipe that woman’s memory?”

“Well, I—I can’t be heard calling you _angel_. I mean, you are actually an angel, but they don’t know that, and they’ve got enough ideas already. It could sound like—We’re not trying to look _engaged._ ”

“Well, you didn’t only say—”

“Let’s try that again,” Crowley cut him off. Everyone in the room came back to life and resumed their conversations. “Lady Melweather, have you met my _friend,_ Mr. Fell?”

If Lady Melweather noticed that several seconds had passed without her noticing, she didn’t react. “Mr. Fell,” she repeated, as if she knew she was going to have to get used to the name, and didn’t like it. “I understand you run a business in the city?”

“Yes, a bookshop,” said Aziraphale brightly. He’d been through enough performance reviews with Michael that he could cope with a little contempt. “In Soho.”

“ _Soho._ Indeed.” The two-syllable name appeared difficult for her to pronounce. “Mrs. Harrison, you really believe this man is…suitable for you to associate with?”

“Yeah, I do,” said Crowley, in a slightly more challenging tone than Aziraphale thought might be wise considering Lady Melweather’s apparent status. “I happen to see more than his income.”

Lady Melweather’s eyes shifted between the two of them. “I only hope that he does the same.”

“Lady Melweather,” said Mrs. Haynes, who had just come up behind her. “We’re so glad to have you here. I don’t believe you’ve been in our home before. Shall I show you around?”

Aziraphale shot Mrs. Haynes a grateful look as she led the lady away. “That was an ordeal,” he muttered. “Who is she, exactly?”

“Her father was a marquess. Her income’s two or three times mine, and she knows all the right people. Insulting her is a good way to end up shunned by a quarter of London society.”

Yet Crowley had stood up to her on Aziraphale’s behalf, despite her need to remain in good social standing, and her current shortage of miracles, which probably hadn’t been helped by the time-stopping and memory-erasing. The thought warmed his chest.

“I believe I’m going to need another glass of champagne after that.” Aziraphale looked around for a member of the Haynes’ kitchen staff. “I’ll be with you again in a moment, my dear.”

He managed to find not the champagne, but Mr. Haynes. “Let me congratulate you on a successful introduction to Lady Melweather, Mr. Fell,” he said in an undertone.

“That was _successful?_ ”

“Well, she didn’t pass any outright judgements on your character, she merely asked and implied. Believe me, that is a success.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale wondered whether Lady Melweather would have been half so critical if Aziraphale had a title and an estate, and whether his introduction would have had such a low barrier for success in that case. “Charming woman,” he observed.

“She grows easier to deal with over time,” said Mr. Haynes. Aziraphale hoped he did not get the opportunity to learn to deal with her. “I hope you’re enjoying our party?”

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “You have a splendid home. I took note of the bookshelves at the other end of the sitting room,” he added. “Did I see some well-used volumes of Homer?”

“Indeed!” Mr. Haynes smiled. “My wife loves his work especially. We will have to invite you back sometime, Mr. Fell, so we can have a proper discussion. And Mrs. Harrison, too, of course,” he added. The two rarely appeared in public without each other anymore, and had become known as a unit. “And you must see the garden sometime, though I am afraid it is grown too late now.”

“Oh, that would be marvelous.” Aziraphale liked gardens as much as the next person, but Crowley had a particular interest in plants, and he always liked seeing her excited about or interested in something. “I’m sure Mrs. Harrison will appreciate the invitation, as well.”

He thanked Mr. Haynes, found the champagne, and returned to Crowley with two glasses. When he found her, she looked like she’d just had an unpleasant encounter with a ghost. “Is something the matter?”

Crowley took the champagne and drank half of it in one gulp. “There’s a new betting pool,” she muttered.

“Is that so?” Crowley had mentioned before that people were betting on who she was eventually going to marry, although she had so far avoided any questions about Aziraphale’s odds. “How am I doing, then?”

Crowley shook her head. “No, a _new_ pool. It’s not ‘who’ anymore, it’s…‘when.’”

“Oh.” It shouldn’t have been a surprise, considering that they were pretending to be in courtship and people seemed to think them a good match, but it still seemed awfully presumptuous. He wondered what the favored dates were. He’d have asked, if he thought Crowley wanted to answer. “Well, that’s…that’s good, isn’t it? We’ve fooled them soundly.”

Crowley looked up and seemed to think for a minute. “Right, yeah. Cheers.”

Their glasses clinked. Aziraphale sipped the champagne and waited while Crowley look a longer draught. “You said you had to introduce me to Lady Melweather, for propriety’s sake,” he said. “Will I need to speak with her again?”

Crowley shook her head before swallowing and lowering the champagne glass. “No, thank hell.”

Aziraphale nodded, relieved. “Because I think I can hear her in the hall. It sounds like she’s coming back.”

The lady’s voice echoed towards them. In a few moments, they could make out the words. “…only I do worry that there are so few windows. How can you get enough light in the daytime? I could never bear to live here in the dark.”

Crowley turned away from the room to hide a grimace. “Let’s hope she’s forgotten she was in the middle of giving you the third degree.”

“Here we are back again, your ladyship,” said Mrs. Haynes. She must have had the patience of a saint, because she did not look the least bit strained after (most likely) having been forced to endure the enumeration of every flaw to be found with her home.

Lady Melweather’s disapproving eye scanned the room again. Aziraphale made himself mysteriously difficult to notice. “Where did that bookseller get to? I had a few more questions as to his intentions with poor Mrs. Harrison.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a panicked glance. “Do you think they’d notice if we left early?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Probably.” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s arm and lead him through the nearest doorway. “But I think they’ll get over it.”

They ended up in the dining room, and then went through another door into a hallway which, judging by the smell, led into the kitchens. “How big is this bloody house?” Crowley muttered, turning back and trying a different door. This one led to a staircase, with a doorway on the other side of it. “Looks like the entryway,” said Crowley, still dragging Aziraphale along. “Let’s—Oh.”

Mr. Jenkins and the youngest Sharpe sister were tucked into the alcove on the other side of the staircase, startlingly close to one another and staring guiltily back at Aziraphale and Crowley. If they hadn’t been interrupted, they might be doing something as improper as kissing out of wedlock.

“Well, if you’re having a nice time, don’t let us interrupt you,” said Aziraphale, tugging Crowley away.

“Have a good night!” Crowley added.

They were both giggling when they finally emerged into the entryway and escaped out the door. “So much for seething,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Oh, come on, that was textbook lust!” said Crowley, waving a hand back towards the door. “That’s a clear point for me.”

“Is it?” said Aziraphale. “He’s moved on and found a new companion.”

Crowley snorted. “Dunno if they’re exactly looking for _companionship._ ”

They reached her carriage, which wasn’t ready to leave, since neither of them had sent word that they intended to depart. The carriage-drivers were all playing cards next to the house. Aziraphale went over to chat with them, and to find out which of them was Lady Melweather’s driver so he could lay a blessing for exceptional good fortune on his whole family. Crowley raised her eyebrows at him, but didn’t comment. If she’d had more miracles to spare, Aziraphale suspected that she might have done the same.

Another miracle ensured that nobody came looking for them while the carriage was prepared, and soon they were bumping and rolling along London’s streets. There was more room inside than usual without Miss Page. This evening had been unique in that the invitation had been extended to both Mr. Fell and Mrs. Harrison, rather than just the latter, and they were not given the option of inviting a third. Aziraphale offered to ask, and he doubted the Haynes’ would have said no, but Miss Page insisted that she didn’t mind. For some reason, she seemed delighted by the idea of the two of them attending a dinner party without her.

Crowley stretched out her legs in front of herself in a very unladylike way and set her feet up on the side of the backwards-facing seat that was not occupied by Aziraphale. “That was fun. Until Lady Hellweather showed up.”

“Yes, I had a lovely time. The Haynes’ are quite pleasant people.” And it had been sort of exciting, fleeing the party early with Crowley’s hand on his arm. “Do you know, they invited us back to see their garden?”

They chatted idly until the carriage pulled up in front of the bookshop and Crowley hurriedly put her feet down before the driver opened the door. “Goodnight, Mr. Fell,” said Crowley as Aziraphale stepped out. “Hetty and I’ll come by tomorrow for a debrief. We can decide who gets the point for Jenkins.”

“Very good. Have a lovely night, my dear.”

Aziraphale let himself into the bookshop and prepared to spend the evening the best way he knew how, with a book and a blanket and a mug of tea. He even opened a new tin of shortbread. Surely he had earned it, since his and Crowley’s ruse was working so well. Practically everyone in London believed they were in love, and very few of Crowley’s suitors remained who had not grown discouraged.

Perhaps it was working a little too well. Neither of them had changed their behavior at all, only their explanation for it. At least, Aziraphale hadn’t changed his behavior consciously, and he hadn’t noticed any difference from Crowley, unless you counted that slip-up when she had introduced Aziraphale to Lady Melweather earlier that evening. But she had always called Aziraphale “angel,” and she always seemed to enjoy his company, and she was always kind to him (not that she would ever admit it) and defended him when she felt it was necessary. Aziraphale sat in his armchair with his cocoa in one hand and _The Canterbury Tales_ unopened on his lap, and considered a question he had been avoiding until now.

Was Crowley in love with him?

It was a big question. Some might say it was impossible to answer. “Love” was such a broad concept, which encompassed many vastly different ideas, and Aziraphale had never completely understood how the meaning changed when “in” and “with” were added around it. Perhaps everyone had their own definition, in which case it would be impossible to determine what it meant. Or perhaps the reason he didn’t understand was because that was an emotion meant for humans, and occult and celestial beings were not equipped for such feelings. He had only ever been briefed on the vague, all-encompassing, angelic sort of love, and he imagined demons barely discussed the subject at all. And all this uncertainty and philosophical debate was really just a distraction from the fact that Aziraphale already knew the answer, which was yes.

It was also a distraction from the immediate follow-up question: was Aziraphale in love with Crowley?

And the answer to that one, which was also, undoubtedly, yes.

* * *

It probably should have come as a shock, but Aziraphale didn’t feel any different. He had always enjoyed Crowley’s company, and liked seeing the demon happy, and that hadn’t changed. Neither had the fact that he felt more at home with Crowley than with anyone else in the world. The most tangible difference was Aziraphale’s embarrassment that half of London society had recognized his feelings before he had.

Did Crowley know? She must. It was the sort of thing people usually noticed, unless they were as dense as Aziraphale apparently was. It would have been nice if she had _told_ Aziraphale, he thought passive-aggressively, until he remembered that humans could be oddly secretive about such feelings and he had no idea how demons usually dealt with them. Crowley had probably assumed Aziraphale would figure it out on his own. And it didn’t really change anything.

It also didn’t change the fact that they were on opposite sides, and should not even be talking to each other. Being in love with a demon was only one step more damning than being best friends with one, which was a little bit worse than being normal friends…Apparently, Aziraphale had been taking small steps towards Crowley for as long as they’d known each other without realizing how far he’d gotten. Perhaps it was only natural for them to end up here eventually. He probably should have been more alarmed than he was, but what was there to do about it now?

He didn’t want to do anything about it. Perhaps he should regret it, but it was a privilege to know Crowley, to be able to spend any time with her, to see that tiny stifled smile and that unrestrained laugh. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley takes a night off at the bookshop with Aziraphale

As he stepped down onto the cobblestones, Crowley flipped a coin at the coachman without looking. He loped up to the bookshop door, straightening his hat to make sure it wouldn’t fall off and spill his hair everywhere. He’d opted to preserve his miracles and simply tuck it out of sight rather than shortening it and lengthening it again later, and the current fashion meant that a man-shaped being with long hair would stand out in public. Usually, he wouldn’t have cared, but he was trying to stay under the radar tonight. Mrs. Harrison was a little too well-known. He could always pretend to be Mrs. Harrison’s brother, but he’d rather not have people asking questions about a brother he’d never mentioned before now.

He rapped his knuckles on the door, and Aziraphale answered a moment later. “Evening, Mr. Fell,” said Crowley, holding up the bottle of wine he’d brought. “Felt like a night off. What do you say?”

Aziraphale let him in at once. “You don’t need to knock, you know.”

Crowley winced. “I do, actually. I’m still running low.”

“It will always open for you, my dear.” Aziraphale shut the door behind him and waved for Crowley to hand him the wine. “Let’s see what you’ve brought. Oh, yes, this will do very nicely. Come on back.”

It was a relief to be back in the bookshop with no pretense. Well, no more pretense than usual, he supposed. He’d been here often in the past month, usually with Hetty, and Mrs. Harrison was starting to feel increasingly like a costume and a role instead of just another of the many ways he had chosen to style himself over the years. He was enjoying himself, of course. He always loved spending time with Aziraphale, particularly when they didn’t have to pretend to be strangers. But it was starting to drive him a little mad, going to parties on Aziraphale’s arm, watching people look at them like a couple, seeing the sad way Hetty looked at them and knowing she was imagining them as tragic star-crossed lovers. At times, Crowley wondered whether Aziraphale was smiling and being so courteous to him because he wanted to, or because of the ruse. Aziraphale had always seemed to enjoy his company, but his insecurities liked to torment him anyway.

But this felt familiar, the two of them and a bottle of wine, with Mrs. Harrison and all her trappings left on a clothes-hanger in Crowley’s room in the boarding house. No ruse. Nobody to play-act for. Aziraphale was still smiling, like always.

Crowley hung his hat on the coat rack and shook his long ponytail out straight. Best to get the news out of the way. He cleared his throat. “Hetty got a letter earlier today. M’afraid her sister Mary’s ill. We leave tomorrow to return to the South Downs.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. “I’m sorry to hear that. The poor dear. I hope she recovers.”

“She will.” Crowley might be short on miracles, but he had enough left to ensure her recovery. “Just thought you should know.”

They were both quiet for a moment, and then Aziraphale broke the silence by popping the winecork out of the bottle. “Will you be coming back to London?”

Crowley had already stayed several weeks longer than he’d intended. He’d probably need some time at Rothwell to check on the finances, make sure everything was running smoothly, and deal with whatever state of anarchy the garden had grown into in his absence. “I’m not sure. Not immediately.”

Aziraphale nodded and poured them two glasses of wine. “I suppose we’ll have to suspend our bet, then. Cheers.”

The glasses clinked. Crowley sank into the sofa, letting himself relax into a posture unbecoming of either a gentleman or a lady. He liked to think it was very becoming of a demon. “We can just say I won.”

“No, we can’t. You didn’t win _._ ”

“Ask Hetty.”

“You ask her. Last time we spoke, she agreed I was in the lead.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “I don’t remember that.”

“Alright, I was…projected to be in the lead, if my current progress continued. If you had stayed in London another week or two, I’d have been clearly ahead.”

“D’you know who hasn’t moved on yet? _Barnett._ You think you can make him stop hating both of us?”

“He can’t hate us forever, and neither can any of the others.” Aziraphale sipped the wine haughtily. “And, I’ll have you know, Sir Davies congratulated me four nights ago.”

Crowley straightened a bit. “He what?”

“Mm-hm.”

“He didn’t.”

“He wished us every happiness.”

Crowley was skeptical. “He’s lying.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“He is. He’s trying to save face.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I will. I’ll figure out his ulterior motive, and—”

“You’ll be at Rothwell, my dear,” Aziraphale reminded him.

Crowley’s gaze dropped to his wine glass. He wasn’t quite ready for their little ruse to be over, but then, he was never ready to leave Aziraphale. “Oh yeah.”

Both of them had known from the beginning that they would most likely never declare a winner in their bet. Or maybe Crowley would use it as an excuse to buy Aziraphale dinner a half-century from now, or Aziraphale would cite it as a reason they needed to drink a bottle of scotch he had definitely meant to give to Crowley but kept forgetting about. The winning had never really been the point.

“D’you hear Watkins got engaged to that girl he’d been courting?” said Crowley, after a long drink of wine.

Aziraphale glanced over with raised eyebrows. “That was quick.”

Crowley shrugged. Mr. Watkins had already shown interest in Miss Stinton before Crowley arrived in London, and apparently the young woman needed a husband badly enough that she didn’t mind being his second choice after he’d lost out with the wealthy widow.

“Well, good for her,” said Aziraphale. “What a lucky girl, to marry into a house with so many windows.”

Crowley snickered. He’d forgotten about the windows. “Maybe I should’ve picked him. Rothwell’s got a respectable number of windows, but not so many that I struggle to keep them clean.”

“Well, him and his windows are taken now, unfortunately,” said Aziraphale. “You’ll have to content yourself with merely an average amount of natural light.”

“Yeah.” Crowley leaned back against the sofa and folded his arms behind his head. “Well, I can always go outside, if it’s too oppressively dim in the house.”

Aziraphale snorted and drank some of his wine. “It must be nice, living in the country.”

“Not really.” Disregarding that entire horrible period when he had been married, Rothwell was too big and too quiet for Crowley. He liked the bustle of the city, the constant distractions and entertainments, the scores of people around to tempt or claim credit for the tempting of. It had been lonely in the South Downs, at least before he met Hetty and the other Pages, and human friendships were never quite the same. “I don’t think country living’s really my thing.” Not while Aziraphale was in the city, at least.

The angel frowned. “I just assumed—Do you not intend to stay at Rothwell?”

“What, indefinitely?” Crowley grimaced and shook his head. “Not nearly enough people to tempt out there, and people’d notice I don’t age. Nah, when this whole stupid plan is played out, I’ll fake my own death and leave Rothwell to Hetty. Already got the will drawn up and everything.”

“Really?” Aziraphale treated him to that annoyingly soft smile he used when he thought Crowley had done something nice. “That’s very generous, my dear.”

Crowley squirmed uncomfortably, and disguised the motion as repositioning his limbs along the sofa. “Well, y’know. The Pages aren’t in a great position. The girls’ father died and left everything to a distant nephew, to keep it in the family name.” He spoke with no small amount of bitterness. “The new Mr. Page was kind enough to provide the girls and their mother with a modest income, and a place to stay. But he controls everything.”

Aziraphale’s forehead wrinkled. “That’s awful.”

Crowley nodded and finished off the rest of his wine. “Not much any of the Page ladies can do but try to marry extremely well.” He hesitated. “You know I don’t want Hetty to have to marry. But she’ll be alright, as long as she doesn’t try to get engaged before I die. She and her family could live quite comfortably on my income.”

Aziraphale looked at him sadly. “I only wish she didn’t have to lose such a good friend first.”

Crowley paused. It had occurred to him that Mrs. Harrison’s death would probably grieve the young woman, but that was how it was with humans. They came and went, and so did he. “Accomplice,” he reminded Aziraphale. “And I think the reading of the will might alleviate some of the pain.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Well, I think it’s extremely thoughtful of you, my dear. I don’t believe anyone should marry if it would make them unhappy.”

Crowley frowned. He couldn’t tell whether that last comment was aimed at himself. “I told you, Aziraphale, I did it for _work._ ”

Aziraphale made a “hmf” noise, finished his wine and reached for the bottle to top it up.

Crowley held out his glass for a refill. “You’re still upset about that?”

“As I said before, marriage is a _holy institution.”_

“Plenty of pagan societies have marriages.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Aziraphale filled Crowley’s glass a bit less generously than his own. “It is not something to be treated lightly.”

“It’s not like I _wanted_ to.”

Aziraphale looked up and blinked. “You didn’t?”

“It was a bloody assignment! How many times are you gonna make me say—”

“I thought it was your idea. You acted like you planned the whole thing.”

“Well, the wealthy-eligible-widow thing afterwards was. Y’know, the clever part.”

Aziraphale looked baffled. “Why the devil would your superiors want you to get married? Didn’t you tell them that English law requires the ceremony to happen in a church? I assume they realize what that means for a demon.”

Crowley frowned and tipped his head back against the arm of the sofa so he was looking up at the ceiling instead of at Aziraphale. The full story wasn’t quite as flattering to him as the version he had told Aziraphale. He drank half his wine before he started. “I pissed off Ligur,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale looked at him blankly. “And so…?”

Crowley grimaced and threw himself up into a sitting position, barely keeping the wine from spilling. “I messed up one of Ligur’s projects, and he complained to Lord Beelzebub. They’re big on cruel and unusual punishment, so—Well, you remember the marriage act back in the fifties?”

Aziraphale nodded, eyebrows rising. “Surely you didn’t claim credit for…?”

“Framed it as religious conflict,” Crowley interrupted. “They loved it when I told them about all the other ways England’s found to screw over non-Anglicans, and marriages have to take place in an Anglican church now, so…”

“And the waiting period, and requirement of parental consent, to prevent clandestine marriages?”

“Well, I didn’t tell them that part, did I?” Crowley dragged his fingers across his eyelids. “So Ligur tells Beelz I screwed up his plan, and Beelz says, ‘Hey, Crowley, remember that marriage thing you did a few decades ago? Why don’t you give us a demonstration?”

Aziraphale winced. Crowley did, too, at the memory. He was lucky nobody noticed the smoke rising from his shoes during the ceremony. By the time it was finished, the soles of his feet were red and blistery in most places, and black in a few. As soon as they got back to Rothwell, he’d hypnotized Mr. Harrison and kept him in a trance for over a month while his feet healed. When Crowley could walk again, he woke Mr. Harrison, informed him what a lovely honeymoon they’d had, and by the way, didn’t he despise his brother, and had he drawn up a will yet?

“Crowley, that’s horrible,” said Aziraphale. “I had no idea they forced it on you.”

“That’s hell for you,” said Crowley, with a shrug. “They cut my miracle quota, too, for ‘unrelated reasons,’ just so it’d be harder for me to pull it off. So I figured, what the heaven, if I have to torture myself I might as well make the most of it. So I used the marriage as a jumping-off point for some top-notch wiles, and once this whole thing plays itself out I’ll go back with a sparkling report chock-full of temptation and sin.” He grinned sharply. “Can’t wait to see the look on Ligur’s face.”

“Why was he so angry with you?” asked Aziraphale. “It can’t have been the first time you’ve inconvenienced Ligur. It seems like an extreme punishment.”

It was, but it had been proportional to the crime. Crowley had been a bit too obvious, and Ligur wasn’t stupid enough to believe Crowley had accidentally given Ligur’s hackney driver an address clear on the other side of London, and then started a fire in a perfume factory that completely masked the angelic scent Ligur had been hunting. Still, as painful as the punishment had been, it was worth it. Crowley would rather stand in a church for a year than let Aziraphale get hurt. He shrugged. “Eh, they never do things by halves down there. I think Beelz was in a bad mood that day. Oh, don’t look too glum about it,” he said, catching the expression on Aziraphale’s face. “I got a nice house out of the deal, not to mention the garden and the grounds.”

Aziraphale’s worry turned to interest. “You have a garden?”

“‘Course I have a garden. It’s practically required in England.” It had been one of the best parts of living at Rothwell. He couldn’t help a small smile as he thought of the way the land sloped down to the lake half-hidden in trees, the plum blossoms in the spring, the duck migrations in the autumn. “Have you seen the new modern gardens? The landscaping trend now is to make it look natural.”

“That sounds nice,” said Aziraphale. “And relatively low-effort, too.”

“Nope. They’ll dig up trees and move them if they have to.”

Aziraphale frowned. “They move the trees from where they were…naturally growing?”

“Yep.”

“To make it look more natural.”

“Exactly. But the trees do look nice where the older Mr. Harrison relocated them. Crowley smiled to himself. “You should see it, angel.”

“Oh?”

Crowley hadn’t thought before saying it, but now that he had, it sounded like a brilliant idea. A little frightening, but he was feeling daring, and he’d already said it. He straightened up so he could look at Aziraphale more clearly. “Come back with me.”

Aziraphale blinked and gave a nervous laugh. “I don’t know…”

“Just for a few days,” said Crowley. “C’mon, I know you’d like Rothwell. You should see it before I pass it on, anyway, and you could meet the rest of Hetty’s family. There’s plenty of room for you and your things in the landau. I know Hetty won’t mind.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Won’t people find it a bit—improper?”

“There’s a little inn down the road that you can stay at,” said Crowley. “And, no, they won’t find it improper that you’re taking a look at the place they all think you’re going to own someday. They’d probably even expect it.”

Aziraphale pretended to think about it for a few more seconds. “I suppose I could leave the bookshop alone for a little while,” he said. “You do make the garden sound quite appealing, and I haven’t taken a trip into the country for a long while.”

Crowley’s heart did something funny. The wine was definitely starting to get to him. “You’ll like it, angel. I promise.”

Aziraphale returned the smile a little nervously, but the happy way he wiggled in his seat revealed his excitement. “Well, if you _promise,_ ” he said. “I’ll have to hold you to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, a visit to ~~Pemberly~~ Rothwell, to meet the ~~Bennet~~ ~~Dashwood~~ Page sisters.
> 
> The fact that English landscape artists used to relocate entire trees to make a landscape look more "naturally picturesque" is another thing I find hilarious and had to mention somewhere.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gives Aziraphale the tour of Rothwell. Some unexpected things have been happening in the neighborhood in Crowley's absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit more pining and angst than usual in this chapter, but not quite enough that I felt like I needed to add an angst tag.

Aziraphale stepped out of the landau, his mouth hanging open in awe. The manor house of Rothwell was one of the most impressive Aziraphale had ever seen. Symmetrical wings of yellow-brown stone stretched to either side of a Palladian portico, stout columns supporting a small peak in the roof. There were chimneys as far as the eye could see. Aziraphale, Crowley, and Miss Page had arrived too late the previous evening to do anything but unpack at their respective lodgings, and Crowley insisted that he get his first glimpse of Rothwell in the sunlight the following morning. Now he understood why. “You live _here?_ ”

“Not bad, hm?” Crowley stepped down behind him.

At the sound, Aziraphale realized that he had neglected to offer a hand to help her down. “Oh, sorry, my dear. Only…” He gestured at the house a little helplessly. “I think that’s more windows than I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“You sure know how to flatter a lady,” Crowley chuckled. “Wait ‘till you see the rest.”

The interior was as lavish as the exterior, all high ceilings, rich red and gold carpets, and pale yellow wallpaper that shimmered with subtle floral designs. The furniture was of dark-stained wood with crimson upholstery that matched the drapes. It was all so grand and warm and _Crowley_ that Aziraphale couldn’t picture her living anywhere else. “Did you do the decorating yourself?”

“Well, I do have to look at it all the bloody time.”

Aziraphale had only seen a handful of Crowley’s homes over the years, and most of them had been furnished with only the bare essentials. Of course, Crowley preferred to live in bustling cities, where she didn’t spend much time at home. Between being briefly married here and the requisite mourning period afterwards, she must have had to spend a lot of time within these walls. “It’s splendid,” he said. “I’d never have guessed you had such an eye for interior design.” He looked around, caught a glimpse of something through one of the large doorways, and frowned. “Crowley, is that…”

“The parlor,” she said, which wasn’t what Aziraphale was going to say. “One of them, at least. Doesn’t see much use, though.”

Aziraphale let go of her arm to walk to the doorway. “Really, my dear?”

Over the mantlepiece hung a gilt-framed oil painting of Crowley herself, walking beside a copse of trees with a black parasol over her shoulder. “Well, it’s better than my late husband’s dead father staring down at me,” said Crowley, catching up with him. “Who else was I gonna put there?”

“You could have commissioned a landscape.”

Crowley scoffed. “There are enough landscapes in the rest of the house.”

“Or perhaps a still life. Or some animals.”

“Have to be a pretty enormous still life.” When Aziraphale kept looking at her, she let out a huff. “Look, I’m a _demon._ We’re supposed to be a little vain. It’s a good painting, alright?”

Aziraphale stepped forward to examine the painting more closely. “Hm. It makes you look…aloof, which I’m afraid is not entirely accurate.”

Crowley scowled at the implication that she felt emotions. “Hmph.”

“I wish they had captured your eyes,” Aziraphale said without thinking, looking up to the painted black lenses. “Though perhaps that’s too difficult a task.”

“Yeah, I imagine asking _could you be sure to get my inhuman yellow snake-eyes in the portrait_ might make things difficult.”

Aziraphale turned around to ask whether he should expect to find other Crowleys glaring at him from the walls of other rooms, when he saw the pianoforte in the opposite corner, and what he’d been about to say was lost in a gasp.

“What?” Crowley followed his gaze. “No.”

Aziraphale bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement. Hadn’t someone mentioned to him that Mrs. Harrison played the piano? “My dear—”

“I’m out of practice. I barely play anymore.”

“I’ve never gotten to hear you,” said Aziraphale. “Won’t you please? Just one little song?”

Crowley reached over and plunked one of the keys. “There you go. Now you’ve heard me.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale tried to look angry, but knew he probably only looked comically puffed-up. “I came all this way. If you don’t play for me at least once before I leave, I shall be very cross.”

Crowley groaned, which meant she had given up resisting. “Maybe if I had some time to warm up.”

“Tomorrow, then?” Aziraphale asked. “We could arrange a concert, and invite Miss Page and her family. Do any of her sisters play?”

“No, but I think her friend Eliza does.”

Aziraphale smiled. On the carriage ride from London, Miss Page had shyly asked if Mr. Fell might allow her to introduce him to her very dear friend, Miss Eliza Baxter. Aziraphale had beamed and said that he would be honored. “We should have her over, too, then.”

“That reminds me, how does lunch at the Pages’ sound?” Crowley asked. “Her mother’s invited us. It’s close enough to walk, and I could show you a bit of the grounds on the way.”

“That sounds perfect. How is her sister, by the way? The one who was sick?”

“Rapidly improving.”

Aziraphale blinked. Healing was no small task, and Crowley was already low on miracles. “You needn’t have troubled yourself, Crowley. I could have taken care of it when I visited today.”

Crowley shrugged. She probably hadn’t wanted to take any chances. She was always so careful where the people she cared about were concerned.

The tour of the rest of the house didn’t take long, because Crowley had closed more than half the rooms after Mr. Harrison passed on. “Too much space,” she said. “What’s the point?” Aziraphale imagined how lonely it must be in this huge empty mansion, even compared to the spacious homes Crowley usually preferred, and nodded.

When Crowley led him outside to show him the grounds, Aziraphale stopped in the doorway to catch his breath. The most flawless shrubs and flowers Aziraphale had ever seen surrounded the house. The beds were irregularly placed and shaped, without a straight line in sight, so that it all blended together like paints on a pallet. A path led away from the door, curved to the right, and vanished behind a screen of shrubberies. It reappeared further down the hillside, forked around a rose-trellis, and wound out of sight again. The meandering trail through the garden eventually broke off and continued down the slope away from the house, where it presumably made its way to the lake that shimmered in the distance, through the trees placed perfectly to draw the eye to the water. It looked like a fairytale.

“Well?” said Crowley. Aziraphale could hear her smiling without looking.

He tried to think of something to say, but all he could come up with was, “Oh.”

“I wish I could take credit.” Crowley looped her arm through his again and led him off through the garden. “One of the much earlier Harrisons was clever enough to put the house on this hill, overlooking that lake, and you really can’t go wrong after that. This all used to be a baroque garden,” she added, gesturing at the peonies and hollyhocks around them. “All squares and straight lines. The previous generation’s Mr. Harrison had it all torn up and replanted it like this instead.”

“So you didn’t—” Aziraphale broke off. Of course Crowley hadn’t landscaped and planted the entire garden herself. She had only lived here for a few years, and she’d also decorated most of the house.

Crowley chuckled, apparently guessing what Aziraphale had thought. “Nah, I just look after them. Water, prune, make sure they know who’s in charge, that sort of thing. It’d be fun to tear it all down again and remake it, but I thought, why bother if I won’t be here very long? And the old Harrison did a decent landscaping job.”

Aziraphale would have liked to follow the trail for its full circuit of the grounds, and explore the area around the lake and the woods, but it took them long enough to make their way through the main garden, and then they had to hurry to the Pages’ for lunch. It was a longer walk than Crowley had led him to believe, but it was a pleasant day out, and the path they walked had a charming view of the countryside. When they reached the Pages’ modest house, the ladies were already waiting for them, and Miss Page came out to meet them in the road. “Mary is feeling much better,” she said. “She’ll be able to join us for lunch. How was your morning?”

“Exquisite,” said Aziraphale. “Mrs. Harrison has been showing me Rothwell. It is such a beautiful estate.”

“Is it not?” Miss Page looked at Crowley with a small smile. “A pity she keeps it all to herself.”

The door opened and Mrs. Page, a round-faced woman with smile lines around her eyes, came out to greet them. “Oh, welcome back, Mrs. Harrison! How wonderful to see you out of mourning at last.” She greeted Crowley with a warm handshake before turning to curtsey to Aziraphale. “And this must be the famous Mr. Fell I’ve heard so much about.”

“Oh, you’ve…” Aziraphale glanced at Miss Page, who gave a sheepish grin. He hadn’t realized that his and Crowley’s ruse had made it into the family letters. “Good things, I hope?”

“You needn’t be troubled about that,” she said. “Hetty tells me she could not imagine a more suitable match, and considering how vehemently she was against Ms. Harrison making a match at all, I believe that is saying something. Though perhaps we may not be calling her Mrs. Harrison for much longer.”

Miss Page’s eyes widened a fraction. “Mother—”

“Hush, my dear. I hope you found Rothwell to your liking, Mr. Fell?”

“Er—Yes, quite.” Aziraphale hadn’t realized they would be continuing the ruse here. From the daggers Crowley was currently glaring at Miss Page, it seemed she had not realized it, either.

“Good.” The woman beamed. “I must ask, what did you think of the décor? Perhaps you can convince Mrs. Harrison to decorate the place with some other color besides red, after—”

“Shall we go inside?” Miss Page interrupted. “Our lunch must be getting cold.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. How prudent of you, Hetty.” She opened the door and beckoned them inside. “And, Mr. Fell, I must introduce you to my other daughters. This is Caroline, my second-eldest, and Louisa, my youngest. Mary, my second-youngest, sits there. You must excuse her for not standing to meet you. She has been indisposed. And, of course, you’ve already met Henrietta.” She waved at her daughters impatiently. “Come now, girls, it’s polite to say hello to your soon-to-be neighbor.”

“Mother, may I speak with you for a moment?” Miss Page tugged her arm and led her to a corner.

Miss Caroline and young Miss Louisa curtseyed, and Miss Mary said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale smiled at all of them. “The pleasure is mine.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Harrison,” Miss Caroline added.

“What?” Crowley seemed distracted. “Oh, yes. You too.”

In the corner, Miss Page was whispering urgently to her mother. The older woman straightened indignantly and said, in a voice not quite quiet enough to avoid being overheard, “He hasn’t asked yet?”

Louisa, who couldn’t have been older than ten, was looking between Aziraphale and Crowley with curiosity. “Is it true you shared your umbrella, when you two first met?”

“Louisa!” Miss Caroline hissed.

“I was only asking. I hope someday I meet a man who’d share his umbrella with me.”

“I’m sure one day you shall,” said Miss Mary. “Unless you grow up to be stubborn like Hetty.”

Overhearing her name, Miss Page looked over at her sister and frowned.

“Oh, can’t you be nice to each other, girls?” Mrs. Page bustled over to the table. “We have company _._ And, Hetty, remember that your sister’s been very sick.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Miss Page muttered, taking her place at the table. “And Mary’s been feeling _so_ much better. Shall we eat?”

Lunch was a touch more uncomfortable than Aziraphale had expected. While Miss Page bickered with Miss Mary, Louisa tried to sneak in more questions about Aziraphale and Crowley’s first meeting, and Mrs. Page kept making pointed comments about how lovely Rothwell was, and how lucky anyone would be to have the opportunity to live there. Crowley had gone quiet and retreated into herself, leaving Aziraphale to do most of the work in the conversation. Then Mary used the word “spinster,” and Miss Page looked like she would have dived across the table and attacked her if Miss Caroline hadn’t stood up at that moment and suggested that they retire to the sitting room so that she and Louisa could show Mrs. Harrison the embroidery they had been working on.

Aziraphale got up to follow the rest of them, but touched Crowley’s arm and hung back a little. “Is everything alright, my dear?”

“Hm? Yeah, ‘course.” When Aziraphale’s concern did not abate, she sighed. “I thought we’d have a break from it here. Sorry. Hetty didn’t warn me.”

“I’ve told you it doesn’t bother me.” Aziraphale frowned. “Does it…bother you?”

“What? No.”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely convinced, but the demon did not appear to want to talk about it. “I do wonder why she included her own mother in our ruse.”

“In—Uh, yeah.” Crowley cleared her throat. “She’s committed to the act, I guess. Should’ve been in plays. Plus, gossiping runs in the family, so she probably wanted her mother to spread the news before I arrived.”

“Oh! Yes, I see.”

Aziraphale was suitably impressed with the girls’ embroidery, and then he described his bookshop and compared his experiences in the country with those in London in an effort to keep the conversation away from Crowley’s availability or her sizeable fortune, or Miss Page’s failure to bring a fiancé back with her from London. The girls did not read much, to Aziraphale’s dismay, and Mrs. Page extracted a promise from him to lend them some books on his next visit before he realized that this implied he would be visiting again. He and Crowley had not agreed on how long the ruse would go on. They hadn’t even discussed how they would end it.

“How long will you be here, Mr. Fell?” asked Miss Caroline, drawing his attention back to the conversation at hand.

“Er—Just a few days. I’ll need to get back to my bookshop.”

“That’s a pity,” said Mrs. Page. “And Mrs. Harrison, will you also be returning to—”

“No,” Crowley interrupted, a bit brusquely.

Aziraphale shot her an irritated look. Something had clearly gotten her in a mood, but she could at least behave sociably while they were with company. He cleared his throat. “My dear, would you like to tell them about our plan?”

Crowley looked confused. “You want me to tell…?”

“Ah—I mean.” Aziraphale reddened, realizing that he had not specified which plan, and that Crowley was perhaps preparing to tell them that they were only courting to make other men jealous. “The—We had discussed inviting you all to Rothwell tomorrow,” he told Mrs. Page. “For a piano concert. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Harrison?”

“Oh! That plan. Yes.” Crowley gave a smile that Aziraphale immediately recognized as fake. “And, Hetty, I believe your friend Eliza also plays, does she not?”

Hetty brightened at the name. “She does, extremely well. I can walk to the Baxters’ this afternoon to ask her.”

“That will be splendid!” Mrs. Page clapped her hands together. “My Hetty and Eliza Baxter are such good friends,” she told Aziraphale. “They're practically inseparable. Hetty, you’ve not seen Miss Eliza since you returned, have you? You must have much to say about London…”

Aziraphale politely sat and listened to Mrs. Page describe Miss Baxter, her whole family, and several other neighboring families. At last, he glanced at the clock and observed, with feigned regret, that it was teatime. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid we’re otherwise engaged for the rest of the afternoon,” he lied. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Harrison?”

“Yes indeed.” Crowley got to her feet. “We must be getting on.”

Aziraphale thanked them for lunch, and told them it was lovely to meet all of them and that he looked forward to their gathering on the morrow, and then he and Crowley walked back the way they had come. He snuck a few glances at the demon, trying to puzzle out what might be bothering her, but her expression was difficult to read behind the sunglasses.

“What is it?” Crowley asked after he had looked her way once too many times.

Aziraphale looked away innocently. “Nothing.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You’re in a mood.”

“I’m not _in a mood._ ”

“Why did you make me do all the talking in there, then?”

“I didn’t.” Crowley frowned. “Did I?”

“You did.” Aziraphale hesitated a moment before asking, “Is it the ruse? You told me it didn’t bother you.”

Crowley’s sigh informed Aziraphale that he’d hit on the right idea. “It doesn’t,” she said. “Didn’t. In London, when we were only tricking random strangers I’m not likely to see again.” She waved a hand back towards the Pages’ house. “I _know_ them.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Some of the people we tricked in London were my friends. And I thought you were planning to fake your death soon, and move back to London, anyway.”

“That’s not the point. I was hoping we could just, y’know, be our normal selves here.”

“Crowley, they’re _humans._ Of course we can’t—”

“You know that’s not what I—”

“And neither of us was behaving any differently to begin with. That’s how all this started, remember?”

Crowley stretched her head back and rubbed her eyes. “Y’know what, nevermind. I’ll be more sociable next time, ‘kay?”

Aziraphale searched her face carefully, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She had never seemed bothered before by the fact that everyone could tell they were in love. Had she simply been reminded one too many times? Or had she, like Aziraphale, only just realized, and been more perturbed by the discovery than he was? “Well, we can go have tea at Rothwell, and there will be nobody around to lie to.”

There was a pause. “Yeah,” said Crowley. “Okay, angel. That sounds nice.”

He couldn’t tell what the issue was. Maybe they would talk about it later, he told himself, knowing that they wouldn’t. The only untrue part of their ruse was the bit where Aziraphale planned to propose, but they still acted like the whole thing was one big deception. And Crowley had never said anything to Aziraphale about her feelings before. Perhaps this was one of those things they didn’t talk about, like the Fall, or the fact that their Arrangement was a risk for both of them. And they had alluded to both of those more often than _never,_ which was the number of times Aziraphale could remember anything being said between them about love.

He wouldn’t bring it up, then. The last thing he wanted to do was put Crowley in another bad mood. So, he’d continue pretending they were simple friends, and perhaps that would keep Crowley in that happy, easy state he’d seen her in this morning. It would be as though nothing had changed. Well, nothing _had_ changed, for Aziraphale, but he wasn’t sure about Crowley.

* * *

It didn’t usually get to her like this.

For nearly six thousand years, Crowley had been content with as much of Aziraphale’s company as the angel was willing to share, or as content as she could be when she always wanted to stay a few minutes longer. They had their Arrangement, they crossed paths with some regularity, and, in recent centuries, the angel _smiled_ when he saw her in a way that made her want to smile back. Their little act in London wouldn’t be the first time she and Aziraphale had been mistaken for a couple. At the core of it, they had just been having fun tricking and laughing at obnoxious men that Crowley couldn’t have cared less about. And then they had decided to take a fun little trip so the angel could see some gardens and a fancy building and meet some pleasant people. Again, not the first time.

And then suddenly it wasn’t just an innocent little trip, it was a pathetic imitation of the future that Crowley was never going to have with Aziraphale, and the Pages already had _expectations_ which Hetty had put into their heads before Crowley had told her it was impossible. She tried not to imagine what could have been if she and Aziraphale were ordinary humans like everyone believed, but it was difficult to ignore when nobody wanted to talk about anything else, and they were already here, in her home, and the only additional thing she needed to imagine was a pair of rings and the possibility of a real future together. There was no point in mourning something that never had any chance of happening, but sometimes it got to Crowley like this and she just _ached_ —

It would pass, once her runaway imagination calmed down and she returned to reality, and appreciated how lucky she was to spend time with Aziraphale at all. He’d at least kept a level head in the midst of Mrs. Page’s comments, which helped ground Crowley. Back at Rothwell, she asked her servants to arrange tea, and then she and Aziraphale took the pastries and sandwiches in a basket out to the Greek temple by the pond. No unrealistic expectations from anybody present. Just tea. Aziraphale savored every bite the way only he could, and then he thanked Crowley, and _smiled._ And that was plenty.

“So where d’you want to say we went for tea?” Crowley asked, gathering up the napkins and the plates to put back in the basket. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Page talks to most of the neighborhood families often enough that she’d know we weren’t with any of them.”

“Is it unreasonable for two people who are courting to want to take their tea alone?”

Crowley snickered. “You’re only going to encourage them with that sort of thing, you know.”

The angel frowned. “I thought we were meant to be encouraging the rumors.”

Crowley stopped, halfway to putting a plate back in the basket. “Well, not—I was trying to tempt all the men going after my fortune, remember? It doesn’t matter what the Pages think.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale fidgeted. “I assumed you had suitors here, as well. If the Pages gossip as much as you say, perhaps we would want them spreading the word.”

Crowley considered. It might be easier to bear Mrs. Page’s hints if she thought of them as another necessary part of the plan. “Fair point, I guess.”

They took the long, winding route back up to the house, Crowley’s hand in the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow. It was still a nice day out, although the cooler breeze hinted at rain, and there were a few more clouds than there had been in the morning. A handful of ducks bobbed on the surface of the lake, and Crowley wished they had thought to bring some extra bread along to feed them. She would have miracled some herself, but she was almost entirely drained after healing Mary. As they rounded the clump of trees beside the lake, Aziraphale frowned. “There’s someone up there.”

“Hm?” Crowley looked up and frowned. Someone was indeed hurrying along the path to the house, skirts hitched up above her ankles.

“It looks like one of the Page sisters.”

“It’s Hetty.” Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s arm and hurried ahead.

Aziraphale struggled to keep up. “Why is she running?”

Crowley shook her head, gathered up her own skirt, and dashed up the hill. She waved her free hand. “Hetty!”

The young woman saw them and changed course to meet them. Mud caked the hem of her skirt after her careless run, and her cheeks were red and damp.

“What happened?” asked Crowley when they were close enough to hear each other. “Is someone hurt?”

Hetty shook her head. She was too breathless to speak.

“Come, let’s get you inside.” Aziraphale took her arm, and Crowley took the other, and they steered her back up to the house.

Hetty was silent as they brought her inside and sat her down. Crowley found a glass of water for her, which she drank all at once. It was no wonder, after she had apparently run all the way here. Crowley glanced at Aziraphale and waited for him to take the lead. With his trustable face and soothing presence, he tended to be more helpful in these situations. Crowley stood by in case Hetty needed something more in her wheelhouse, like revenge.

“Now, then, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said gently. “What has put you in such a state?”

Hetty covered her mouth with one hand, and Crowley worried that she might start crying again, but she held it back and managed to speak with only a little quaver in her voice. “Eliza’s engaged.”

Crowley stiffened. No, Hetty and Eliza were going to end up happily. They were going to move into Rothwell together, and neither of them was going to get married to a man they’d never love the same way. Crowley had made that decision the first time she had ever seen the two women in a room together. She had been so focused on keeping Hetty out of an unhappy engagement that she had forgotten about Eliza. “What?”

“My sisters didn’t tell me,” she added. “They wanted to let her share the happy news herself. S-she got engaged while we were in London.”

Crowley’s stomach convulsed. No. Absolutely not. Crowley propelled herself to her feet. “Like fuck she is,” she said, ignoring ignored Hetty’s gasp, and Aziraphale’s cry of “language!” She flicked one hand in a beckoning gesture. “Angel, a word.”

Aziraphale looked anxiously between her and Hetty before joining Crowley in the corner. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to hear that nickname.”

Crowley was so far beyond caring about that. “Lend me a miracle.”

Aziraphale’s eyes opened in shock, and he took a step backwards. “Excuse me?”

“There has to be some way to transfer them,” said Crowley. “And I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel here after that healing.”

“What do you want it for?”

“I’m going to break up the engagement, obviously.”

“How?” Aziraphale’s glance turned sharp and accusatory. “hypnotize them? Kill someone else?” He waved impatiently. “Marry the man yourself?”

Was he honestly still upset about—Crowley gritted her teeth. “I don’t know yet, but Eliza cannot get married. You don’t understand. There’s no one else for Hetty, for either of them—”

“You can’t just tamper with people’s lives like that!”

Crowley groaned in frustration. She should have known Aziraphale wouldn’t understand. Eliza’s engagement was part of the _ineffable plan,_ probably, and never mind that it would make both of them miserable, or that English society was built in a way that made it impossible for them to live happily without supernatural intervention. Aziraphale didn’t know Hetty and Eliza like she did. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Fine,” Crowley spat. “Keep your miracles. Keep your hands clean of whatever you think I’m doing wrong. I’m going to fix this.” She pushed past him harder than was necessary and walked into the entryway.

The stubborn angel followed her. “Crowley—!”

“Stay here with Hetty,” Crowley snapped without turning around. “I’ll be back.”

Aziraphale’s footsteps stopped. Good. There’s be no one around to stop her. She didn’t know what she could do without miracles, but there had to be some way to fix this.

* * *

Dusk was falling when the landau finally rolled up outside. After patting Miss Page on the arm and telling her to wait, Aziraphale went to meet Crowley at the door. When he opened it, she was on her way up the steps, and she passed by Aziraphale without a word.

Aziraphale let the door close and caught her arm to keep her from walking past him. “Crowley.”

She stopped. “Miss Baxter and I had a little chat,” she said without looking at Aziraphale. “She’ll call off the engagement.”

“She will?” Miss Page was standing in the doorway to the parlor. Hope and relief filled her eyes, and then guilt washed them out. She covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh.”

“What?” Crowley asked, forehead furrowing.

“I—Eliza n-needs to marry as much as I do,” she said, on the verge of tears. “And she can’t expect a surplus of offers, after Mr. Harrison ruined the Baxter family name. I should have been happy for her. I have no right to expect—”

“Did you want her to get married?” Crowley interrupted.

Miss Page must have known that Crowley would want to take action. If she wanted the engagement to continue, she would not have come. After biting her lip and thinking for a long moment, Miss Page shook her head.

“Neither did she,” said Crowley. “Just needed a reminder.”

Miss Page did not look entirely comforted. _What is Mrs. Harrison going to do to them?_ she had asked Aziraphale countless times while Crowley was gone. _She frightens me sometimes. Her husband’s death was so sudden…_ Aziraphale had tried to calm her fears and suspicions, but it was difficult when they were true. Crowley was a demon. She had done some awful things. Rarely by choice, but sometimes, when she felt that someone deserved it, or that the situation called for it…

“You’ve missed supper, haven’t you?” Crowley said to Miss Page. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your family.”

Aziraphale hovered as Crowley brought Miss Page to her carriage and instructed the driver to return her to her home. He knew the demon was trying to help, but had she actually thought about what might happen if she forced Eliza to end the engagement? She had left in such a state that Aziraphale didn’t know whether she had thought about the potential consequences. Would Eliza resent losing a chance for economic stability? Would she blame Miss Page by association, and would Crowley’s attempts to help only drive them apart? Aziraphale waited until the carriage was out of sight, and the conversation could not be put off any more. “What did you do, Crowley?”

“Eliza and I talked, like I said.” Crowley turned to go back inside, and Aziraphale followed. “And she decided to drop the engagement.”

Even without miracles, Crowley still had ways of convincing humans to do what she wanted. “Just talking” could mean bribery, or blackmail, or threats… “What did you say to her?”

Crowley shrugged as she reached the door and stepped inside. “I asked if she’d be getting married if Hetty was financially independent, and could support her. She said no. I told her I could make it happen.”

“She can’t have believed you,” Aziraphale said quietly.

Crowley shook her head. “No. So I told her about my will. That I have no heirs or family to speak of, and everything’s going to Hetty. I also have a rare blood condition now.” She raised her eyebrows sarcastically. “I could keel over any day.”

Aziraphale exhaled in relief. Eliza had made her own choice, then, once the facts were before her. “That’s alright, then.”

“What did you think I’d have said?”

He avoided looking at her sunglasses. “I worried that you might have forced her.”

“Why the heaven would I want to _force_ her to give up the engagement?”

Aziraphale hesitated. He could point out that Crowley had asked him for a miracle to do God-knew-what, and that she’d appeared agitated enough to resort to desperate measures.

“I’m the one who’s all about free will, remember?” Crowley went on. “I just want them to be free to choose each other, without tough economic situations and societal bullshit forcing them into something else. But it’s still up to them to choose.”

 _Free to choose each other._ That was a nice thought. Perhaps the world would be a better place if more couples weren’t driven apart by circumstance. Oh, but that was hardly the sort of thought he should entertain, considering. No. Best not go there. “I-I suppose it’s a properly demonic activity, as well. Preventing weddings.”

“Exactly. Weddings are your lot’s territory. Well, except for my wedding, I guess, and all the stupid marriage laws I took credit for.” Crowley cleared her throat. “So, are we good? You’re not gonna smite me, or anything?”

“I wouldn’t smite you,” said Aziraphale, mildly offended. “If I wanted to smite you, you wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Fair point,” Crowley chuckled. “Well, angel, it’s getting late, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to appear _improper._ ”

“Oh—yes, of course.” Aziraphale glanced at the darkened windows. “And I suppose you’ll need to get into practice for the piano recital tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, in the tone of someone trying to hide the fact that they had completely forgotten about something until now. “Do you want a lift to the inn? My driver can take you when he gets back from Hetty’s.”

“No, I wouldn’t want to trouble him so late. I’ll walk.” Aziraphale held up a lantern which had appeared in one hand.

Crowley nodded. “G’night, then, Aziraphale. I’ll pick you up again tomorrow morning.”

Aziraphale bade Crowley farewell and started walking back to the inn, his thoughts a confusing mess. Crowley had seemed happy enough while they were in London, but today had been different, and then there was the business with Miss Page and Miss Baxter. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t really about the two young women after all. Was their ruse upsetting Crowley? Or were her own feelings, or Aziraphale’s, the source of her distress?

It clearly wasn’t something they talked about, so perhaps he shouldn’t even be thinking about it. They had already carved out the Arrangement as a basis for their friendship, and Aziraphale was happy with that, because that was all they could ever safely have. Crowley, on the other hand, was rarely content with the status quo. She was always questioning, always imagining how things might have been different, how things might change…

He glanced back at Rothwell. _It might have been nice_ popped into his head, and he quickly pushed the idea aside. He and Crowley were unlikely friends pretending to be courting in order to prove each other wrong about how people would react. They were having fun. That was all. And Aziraphale was happy with that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets his promised piano recital. He and Crowley realize they never discussed the end of their ruse.

Crowley’s carriage rolled to a stop in front of the inn the next morning, and Aziraphale smiled at her as he climbed inside. Then he learned that she had played the piano the previous night until her fingers were ready to fall off, and had decided to make it Aziraphale’s problem. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to play,” she said, holding up her hands limply and pathetically as the carriage bumped along the road. “Which is a real shame. I could probably blow everyone away with that Beethoven sonata, except I’d have to be able to move my fingers.”

“That’s a terrible pity,” Aziraphale agreed. “If you can’t play for me, I’ll have no choice but to be very cross.”

“Neither of us wants that. It’s too bad I’m out of miracles. I could just zap away the exhaustion.”

“How unfortunate.” Aziraphale pretended not to understand what Crowley was hinting at.

“Probably wouldn’t have had to exhaust them so much, if _somebody_ hadn’t insisted on my playing piano on twenty-four hours’ notice.”

Aziraphale caved with a sigh. “Oh, all right, give them here.” He took both of Crowley’s hands and rubbed a soothing miracle into the backs of her gloves with his thumbs. “Better?”

“Yeah, that helps. Thanks.”

Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Crowley could have just asked Aziraphale to heal her hands, if she didn’t have quite so much pride. “Well, with your hands restored, I fully expect to be blown away by your Beethoven.”

Crowley made an uncertain noise. “Might take another miracle. Would you settle for ‘politely impressed’?”

“That’s not at all what I was promised.”

“I work my fingers to the bone all night for that song you requested, and this is the thanks I get?”

“You’ll have to play for me first if you want any thanks at all.”

Aziraphale was still massaging Crowley’s hands. Should he stop? He wasn’t sure how much of the soreness Crowley had exaggerated. He’d better keep going, then, just to be sure.

“Eliza and the Pages will be over later in the afternoon,” said Crowley. “What do you want to do until then? And forcing me to play the piano is not an option,” she added firmly.

Aziraphale pouted. “In that case, is there anyone else in the neighborhood that I should meet? Any suitors you want to make sure are seething?”

“It wouldn’t really be normal for me to drop in on any of them.”

“Not even to gloat?”

“Do you think I just gloat to my neighbors in my free time?” She frowned. “Should I be gloating more? I probably don’t even gloat an hour a day, on average.”

“Perhaps we could simply ride past in your carriage and make sure they see us,” said Aziraphale. “That’s a form of gloating, isn’t it? And it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for you to show me the neighborhood”

Crowley grinned. “Yeah. Surely they’ve heard about you by now, and could guess who you are. Mrs. Page probably read Hetty’s letters to anyone who’d listen.”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley’s hands again. That was probably enough to keep her hands feeling normal through the rest of the day. With some reluctance, he let them go and folded his own hands back in his lap.

They made a few rounds of the neighborhood with the top of the landau folded down, but if anyone saw the happy couple enjoying themselves, nobody came out to greet them. Crowley lamented the lack of targets for their ridicule, but Aziraphale couldn’t complain about the company. They got to simply talk and look out at the beautiful countryside. The horses tired themselves out before Aziraphale realized how much time had passed, and they had to return to Rothwell to let them rest.

Then it was time for lunch, and Crowley’s cook put together some excellent plates of cold meat, sandwiches, and fruit. One of the fruits in question happened to be an apple, sliced into wedges and arranged in a star shape on the plate. “I just asked for whatever fruit was in season, I swear,” Crowley said, fighting a smirk. Aziraphale shot her a pointed glance before turning it into a pear. It still tasted like an apple.

Crowley seemed in a much better mood than the previous afternoon, and it lasted even after their guests arrived. She didn’t bat an eye when Mrs. Page observed how perfectly at home Mr. Fell looked at Rothwell, and commented on how much difficulty Mrs. Harrison must have running the estate all by herself. “It’s not really that hard,” she said, which shut down that line of speculation. “Hetty, didn’t you want Mr. Fell to meet your friend?”

Miss Page enthusiastically introduced Aziraphale to Miss Eliza Baxter, a handsome young woman with a more serious disposition than Miss Page. “The famous Mr. Fell,” she said with a curtsey. “Your umbrella has caused quite a stir in our little neighborhood.”

Aziraphale hadn’t realized the umbrella story had caught on so much. “I suppose so. And, if I may ask, how did you and Miss Page meet each other?”

She looked a little startled, but Miss Page gave her an encouraging nod, and Aziraphale must have looked nonthreatening enough to calm her. “We were children. It’s been so long, I can’t remember the first meeting.” She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “I heard how you cared for Miss Page last night. Thank you.”

“I was happy to help, although Mrs. Harrison did the difficult part,” said Aziraphale. “And how have you been today?” He added a bit more weight to the question than usual, so she knew what he was really asking.

“I’m well.” She glanced at Miss Page with a small smile, and her companion beamed back. “Very well.”

Relieved, Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, who was trapped in conversation with Mrs. Page and Miss Mary. He should have known that the demon knew what she was doing.

They chatted for a few more minutes until Aziraphale wondered aloud whether there would be any actual piano playing at this piano recital. Crowley, looking mildly annoyed that she hadn’t been permitted to stall longer, led them into the parlor and ordered some tea. She remained standing for as long as possible, making sure everyone had enough tea and snacks and a place to sit, until Aziraphale and Miss Page finally herded her onto the piano bench. She scowled as if she hadn’t invited them into her home for this very purpose, set up her sheet music, and started to play.

Oh, she was wonderful. Breathtaking, even. Not perfect, my any means—She stumbled in a few places, and tended to overemphasize the accents and dynamic markings—but what she lacked in precision she made up for in spirit. Ornaments and scales fell like sparks from her fingers as she played the piano with her whole body, imbuing the music with a fire that could only have been hers. Aziraphale wished the piano faced away from his chair instead of towards it, so he could watch her hands at work.

The first movement of the sonata was over too quickly, and Crowley closed the sheet music to signal that she was done. Aziraphale burst into enthusiastic applause and was quickly joined by the rest of the guests. Crowley curtseyed half-sarcastically before taking her seat beside Aziraphale.

“My dear, that was splendid,” Aziraphale said as Miss Baxter went up to the piano with her sheet music. “Though I wish you had played the other movements as well.”

“Maybe give me more than twenty-four hours’ notice next time,” Crowley whispered back. “You were pretty good, too.”

Aziraphale blinked and shook his head. “I’m sorry?”

“Y’know, convincing.” Crowley nodded toward Mrs. Page. “If you want them gossiping about us.”

“Wh—Oh.” Aziraphale’s cheeks warmed. Perhaps he had stared a bit too much while Crowley was playing. “Yes, I’d—I’d hoped it might appear plausible.”

Miss Baxter started to play something that sounded baroque, and the conversation quieted. Her technique was more polished than Crowley’s, and she phrased the music delicately and tastefully, but Aziraphale privately thought she did not approach the piece with as much energy as she might. Still, even if she wasn’t Crowley, Aziraphale could appreciate a good piece of music played well. The rest of the guests seemed to be enjoying themselves, too, he saw as he glanced around. His eyes stopped on Miss Page, who gazed at Miss Baxter with such open affection that it should have been impossible for anyone to mistake them for mere friends. Had Aziraphale been that obvious when Crowley played? If so, it was no wonder people thought he wanted to propose.

Fortunately, Miss Baxter had more material prepared than Crowley, and kept them entertained for a longer period of time, but she eventually grew tired and had to stop. Aziraphale tried to get Crowley behind the piano again, but she made an excuse of not having anything else to play, and ignored Aziraphale’s assurances that he absolutely would not mind hearing her play the same sonata movement ad nauseum. Someone proposed a walk through the gardens, and the suggestion was enthusiastically accepted. Miss Louisa and Miss Mary skipped ahead, gushing over how perfect the topiaries were and using Crowley’s flowerbeds as a basis to plan the gardens of their own future mansions. Miss Caroline distracted her mother while Miss Page and Miss Baxter walked arm-in-arm behind them. Aziraphale didn’t need to be an angel to sense the love between them. Miss Page could scarcely look at Miss Baxter without smiling, and Miss Baxter barely smiled for anyone else. He understood now why Crowley had been so vehemently against either of them marrying. It wouldn’t have been right. “I’m glad they’re happy,” he said, patting Crowley’s hand in the crook of his elbow. “You were right last night, my dear.”

“Did I hear you correctly?” Crowley looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “I was _right?_ ”

“I suppose it has to happen on occasion. You know what they say about a broken clock.”

“Ouch, going for the broken clock metaphor. Remind me, angel, which of us struggles to keep up with the _times?_ ”

Before Aziraphale had time to complain about the abysmal pun, someone called his name. Miss Mary came around the edge of a trellis and waved to him. “Louisa has something to show you, Mr. Fell.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale shot Crowley an apologetic glance and hurried ahead. “How can I be of service?”

Young Miss Louisa had wandered off the main path and was crouched beside one of Crowley’s rosebushes, cradling something in both hands. She looked up, eyes alight, when Aziraphale approached. “Mr. Fell, look.” The girl moved back a little to show him the red rose cupped in her hands. “Have you ever seen such a perfect blossom?”

“Extraordinary,” Aziraphale agreed, though he rather thought the garden was full of blossoms that were just as elegant as this one. “Mrs. Harrison has quite the green thumb.”

“Indeed.” Louisa giggled. “It would be the perfect flower for you to give to her, would it not?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether to frown or laugh. “I question whether she would appreciate me cutting one of her roses.”

“Oh, but this must be the most perfect rose in all of England. You mustn’t propose to her with anything less.” She lowered her voice. “If you bring her imperfect flowers, she will know it at once. That was where Mr. Hopkins blundered.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile in amusement. As if he would ever presume to give Crowley any plant-related gift. “I don’t believe Mrs. Harrison is so shallow as to make her decision by the flowers a man brings her.”

“Oh! Yes, you must be right.” She smiled with relief. “But I hope you’ll keep it in mind. We are all hoping for you to succeed, and Mrs. Harrison is famously difficult to please.”

“Lulu,” said a teasing voice. Miss Page had come up behind them. “Don’t frighten Mr. Fell. He and Mrs. Harrison are _friends._ You shouldn’t assume anything more.”

“That’s not what you wrote us,” said Louisa. “Mr. Fell, when are you going to ask her? Surely it must be soon.”

“It’s not polite to ask such things, Louisa.” Miss Page mouthed an apology to Aziraphale before turning back to her little sister. “Come away from Mrs. Harrison’s roses. We’re going to walk down to the pond and feed the ducks.”

The girl brightened and followed her sister back to the rest of the group. Crowley was talking to Mrs. Page now, or, more accurately, Mrs. Page was talking to Crowley while Crowley attempted to get a word in edgewise. Miss Caroline chased a laughing Mary, whose hands were cupped tightly together in a way that suggested she held a cricket or a frog trapped inside. Mrs. Page paused in her conversation to shout after the girls to be nice to each other, especially Caroline, as her sister had been bedridden not two days ago. Miss Baxter watched with some amusement. “I hope Louisa hasn’t been bothering you, Mr. Fell,” she said, falling into step beside him. “Hetty—Miss Page worried that she might. She has a tendency to ask questions that she shouldn’t.”

“Not at all. She was just admiring Mrs. Harrison’s roses.” Silently, Aziraphale thanked Miss Page for saving him from Louisa’s questions. Neither he nor Crowley had expected their ruse to become so successful that they had to come up with reasons for not being engaged. Perhaps it had gone a little too far.

Miss Baxter looked thoughtful for a moment. “I must tell you something, Mr. Fell. Miss Page likes to gossip, and keep others’ secrets, but I don’t like the feeling of knowing things about others without their awareness. She told me about you and Mrs. Harrison. I’m sorry for it. You two deserve all the happiness in the world.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale had no idea what she could be referring to. Crowley had told Miss Baxter the previous night that she had a medical condition, so perhaps she was imagining that Crowley would die shortly after they got married? That would require Miss Page to have kept the ruse a secret even from her beloved, which Aziraphale found unlikely. “Er, you do know that we aren’t actually courting?” he said, hands fidgeting. “Mrs. Harrison and I have been friends for a very long time, and we thought…Well, perhaps it was a bit foolish…”

“Yes, Miss Page informed me of your plan.” Miss Baxter looked confused for a moment, and then her eyes widened. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Forgive me, I—I shouldn’t have—Excuse me, I need to check with Hetty about something.” She hurried ahead, leaving Aziraphale to wonder what on Earth Miss Page had told her.

* * *

“Finally,” Crowley mumbled, shutting the door behind herself as she went back into Rothwell. After the walk on the grounds, there had been an invitation to tea at the Baxters’ so Mr. Fell could meet Eliza’s family, and then Mrs. Page invited herself and her daughters back to Rothwell for supper, and somehow Mary had tricked Crowley into agreeing to host a dance in a fortnight. Aziraphale wouldn’t even be here by that time. It would just be her spurned former suitors making desperate last attempts to damage her opinion of him, and their families gossiping and dropping hints and trying to figure out why Mr. Fell hadn’t proposed. If Crowley couldn’t think of a way to get out of the party, maybe she’d just go ahead and throw herself in front of a moving carriage like she’d planned to do anyway. Good thing she’d already gotten her will drawn up.

She rubbed her eyes and went to the piano. As exhausting as last night’s practice had been, it was nice to play again, not to mention the look on Aziraphale’s face after she’d finished her piece. It was a good thing she’d only prepared one movement, because she didn’t think she could handle any more of that smile without melting. After warming up with a halfhearted scale, Crowley ran through the first movement again, stopping to grumble over some of the more challenging parts. When she reached the end, she considered backtracking to the beginning to polish up her execution, and then played ahead anyway. The beginning of the second movement wasn’t too difficult to sightread. Unlike the flashy first movement, this one was slow and quiet. Not sad, exactly, but gentle. Peaceful. The sort of music a demon had no business enjoying.

As the notes came back to her, Crowley relaxed and let the music phrase itself with her breaths. Her wrists remembered how they were supposed to roll to shape the line, press here so the music swells, let it taper off here, connect this phrase into the next. She skipped some of the long, scale-y parts (which she thought ironic) in favor of slow chords and more meaningful melodic lines. She wasn’t doing the music justice by a long shot, but the simple way the notes were put together tugged at her heart. Playing Beethoven always made her wish she had the time to practice properly. Maybe then she’d be able to produce something closer to what the genius composer had heard when he wrote the notes down.

She came to a pause between phrases, and the floorboards creaked. Something moved in the edge of her vision. “Shit,” she shouted, and slammed the heavy wooden cover over the keys.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Aziraphale said from the doorway. He was making that same face from before, the bright one with the misty eyes, that Crowley didn’t know what to do with. “That sounded beautiful.”

“Ngk.” Between that face, and the fright from the angel breaking and entering, Crowley struggled to get a handle on her racing heart. “How the heaven did you get in here?”

“I came in through the front door.”

“Couldn’t’ve knocked?”

“I didn’t want to disturb your house staff, and I’d have preferred not to have anyone gossiping about my visiting your home at such a late hour.” He gestured at the piano. “I worried you might have gone directly to sleep, but I could hear you from outside.”

Crowley’s face flushed at the thought that anyone might have heard her playing such sentimental music from all the way outside. “And, uh, what brings you here?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. His ability to maintain eye contact got a little flickery. “I think…well. I think we ought to talk about our ruse. We never agreed on how, or when, we would end it.”

That was quite an oversight on both their parts. Aziraphale was probably getting tired of being asked when he planned to propose. “Yeah, okay,” said Crowley, getting to her feet. “Do you want to go outside? I could use some fresh air.”

It was well past sunset, but the full moon lit their way. Crowley led Aziraphale to one of several benches near the house, with a view of the hillside, smoky grey in the dim light, sloping down to the inky black surface of the lake. “It’s such a beautiful estate,” said Aziraphale as he sat down. “I’m sure Miss Page will be very happy here.”

“And Miss Baxter.” It was sort of the point for both of them to move into Rothwell together. Crowley could give them that much, at least, even if they still needed to maintain the cover of only being very close friends. Hopefully their families would accept that explanation. It wasn’t entirely commonplace for friends to live together, but Hetty and Eliza’s bond was anything but commonplace. That was clear even to those who didn’t understand its nature.

Aziraphale frowned thoughtfully for a moment. “What exactly did you tell Miss Page about us?”

Crowley coughed. Oh, nothing much, she’d just admitted to being in love with the angel. She should have known saying it out loud was a mistake. Had Hetty let it slip? But she’d sworn not to tell him. “I tell her a lot of things. What do you mean?”

“Miss Baxter said that Miss Page had told her something she heard from you. She seemed to be expressing sympathy, though she hurried away before I could ask what for.” He shook his head, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows. “It was odd. She does know about our plan, so I presume she didn’t think we were actually planning to get married.”

Crowley relaxed. “Ah. Yeah. It’s…” She chose her words carefully. “It’s possible Hetty didn’t believe it was just a ruse.”

He had expected some shock from Aziraphale, perhaps a tirade about how ridiculous that was, but all that happened was that the angel’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, and he said, “Oh.”

Crowley couldn’t decide whether or not the ensuing pause was uncomfortable. “I tried to convince her we weren’t, you know.” She cleared her throat, rather than actually say the words “in love.” “But she wouldn’t have it—bit stubborn—so to get her off the subject I told her we couldn’t get married anyway. S’probably what Eliza felt sorry for.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, with more understanding. “Of course, it makes sense. We are from such different stations.”

“What? No, I didn’t say that.” She couldn’t help but be offended by the idea that any fictionalized version of herself would have cared that Aziraphale worked for his living. As if that would ever make a difference.

Aziraphale shot her a confused glance. “What did you say, then?”

“Er.” It was a good thing it was dark, because Crowley could feel her face heating up. “I said, er. Religious differences.”

She wasn’t looking at Aziraphale, so she couldn’t see his reaction when he said, “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me the first time,” Crowley grumbled.

“ _Religious differences?_ ” Aziraphale started to laugh. Crowley glanced up to see him doubled over and shaking with mirth. “That’s putting it a bit lightly.”

“How would you’ve put it, then?” Crowley shot back. “‘Actually, Hetty, I can’t get married because I’m a _demon,_ which puts a bit of a snag in—’”

“That didn’t stop you the first time.”

“Wh—If I had any choice in the matter—”

Aziraphale wasn’t going to stop laughing anytime soon, so Crowley gave up and resigned herself to just waiting it out. When Aziraphale finally straightened, his breathing returned to normal, a residual grin still on his face. “You done?” Crowley asked flatly.

“For now. I make no promises for the future.” He giggled. “‘Religious differences.’ Oh, dear.”

Crowley leaned against the arm of the bench and looked out over the water. They were getting distracted. Aziraphale had wanted to talk about ending their plan. “I guess the whole thing did get a little out of hand,” she muttered. “With, y’know, the humans, and their ideas. Didn’t think they’d get quite so carried away.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement. “They all think I’m going to propose any day now.” He spoke frankly, but his voice was quiet. It was probably starting to make him uncomfortable, and that was the last thing Crowley wanted.

“We can end it,” she said. “I think my assignment’s just about played out, anyway. We’ll just have to come up with some explanation for why we broke it off.” It’d probably have to be “religious differences,” if Aziraphale could manage to stop laughing about it. Or maybe Crowley would just go ahead and fake her death. Problem solved.

“We could…” Aziraphale hesitated. “If you wanted to end your assignment, and all the questions, we could make them think we’d done it.” He risked a fleeting glance at Crowley, and then looked away. “Forge the necessary documents, get some rings, and…say we’d had a private ceremony.”

Crowley stared at him. It must be a joke. Surely Aziraphale realized that he was suggesting something miles beyond their fake courtship. Even if they didn’t have a proper ceremony, it would mean pretending to be married, living together at Rothwell, waking up in the same house and seeing each other at breakfast every day, going out in society together, as a unit…

Aziraphale’s eyes flitted around at everything except Crowley, as if he were embarrassed. No, he wasn’t joking. Did he…?

“Could,” said Crowley, turning so her sunglasses pointed straight ahead, forcing a nonchalant expression and posture. She drew a breath, then let it out slowly and deliberately. “Then maybe you die a mysterious death, and I get your inheritance, too.”

Aziraphale burst into laughter again, hugging his stomach. It only lasted a moment this time, and then he looked up at Crowley with a smile.

She raised her hand from the arm of the bench in a shrug. “Y’know, at that point, we might as well just do it.”

Aziraphale’s smile turned to shock, and then softened to something more sympathetic. “Crowley.”

Crowley winced, wishing she could snatch the words back. “Ngk, nevermind. Didn’t mean—Forget I said that.”

“Well, marriage is a…a very holy thing.”

“Right.” And Crowley wasn’t.

“And your poor feet…”

Crowley’s feet would heal. “Gosh, that’s right. Didn’t think that through.”

Aziraphale swallowed. His eyes flitted to the sky. “I mean, in the sight of God…?”

“I get it, Aziraphale. It’s alright. It was a stupid thing to say.” They were an angel and a demon. They didn’t…Well, but Aziraphale had already suggested they pretend to be married. Why would he do that if he didn’t, at least a little bit, want…?

“We could always just stage a falling out,” Aziraphale said dully.

“That’s probably easiest. Somewhere public, probably. Real messy.”

“I doubt that will be difficult, for us,” said Aziraphale. “It will have to be before I return to London. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after?”

“Tomorrow.” It would be best if the awkward questions stopped as soon as possible.

“Then you ought to invite Miss Page over first. We can tally up the final scores for the bet.”

Crowley grinned. “You’d better start shopping for scotch, angel.”

“Oh, I rather think I’ll be too busy picking out what restaurant I’d like you to take me to.” Aziraphale wiggled to readjust himself on the bench, to make sure he sat as straight as possible when he smirked at Crowley. The smirk faded a moment later. “I hope you were successful enough to placate your superiors.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have my full miracle allotment back in no time, and then I won’t have to bother you.”

A strange expression crossed Aziraphale’s face. “You’re not a _bother,_ Crowley.”

“I’m not?” Crowley shot him an offended look. “I’ll have to try harder, then.” She cleared her throat. “Thanks for your help with all this, angel. It’s been, y’know. Bearable. Much better company than I’d have had otherwise.”

“There’s no need for thanks.” Aziraphale gave a tiny smile, his eyes twinkling in the moonlight. “It’s been quite bearable for me as well.”

They both sat there for a moment, unsure of what to say. Aziraphale reached over, gave Crowley’s hand a friendly squeeze, and then let go. “Perhaps I should get back to the inn,” he said, getting to his feet and straightening his waistcoat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Crowley nodded. “Do you want a ride?”

“No, your driver’s probably asleep by now. But thank you.”

Crowley walked him back to the front door and saw him off, lingering in the doorway while he descended the stairs. At the bottom, the angel glanced back and smiled up at her. As he turned and continued on, and Crowley shut the door behind him, she realized that she was smiling as well.

She had no reason to. She and Aziraphale were about to stage a catastrophic argument, and that would be the end of their fun little game. No more going to parties arm-in-arm, making fun of idiots together, or pretending they might get married. That’s all it was, pretending. Although Aziraphale had practically just proposed—Well, no, Crowley had done that, hadn’t she? And of course Aziraphale had turned her down, because it had been a mad thing to say, and completely impossible. But his objections hadn’t been to Crowley herself, and he had essentially offered to move into Rothwell with no prompting whatsoever…

Did Aziraphale love her back?

It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change anything. That didn’t stop Crowley from leaning against the door, hugging herself, and grinning like a complete fool.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Mrs. Harrison's untimely death, Aziraphale makes another visit to Rothwell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for grief/mourning in this chapter (nobody has actually died don't worry)

Aziraphale puffed as he walked the last stretch of road to Rothwell. The mail coach that brought him from London had dropped him a considerable distance away, and since Crowley had faked her death in a dramatic carriage accident, he had exchanged his usual white tailcoat and cravat for black ones without accounting for the extra heat that the dark colors would absorb. The late-summer warmth didn’t help matters. Luckily, he was almost at the steps, but then there would be the matter of climbing them.

The door opened before he reached it, and Miss Page hurried down the steps, clutching the skirt of her black bombazine dress so she didn’t trip. “Mr. Fell!” She reached him and embraced him in greeting. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“I came as soon as I got your letter.” Aziraphale patted her on the back and then drew back to look at her. “How are you faring, my dear girl?”

Miss Page’s face was pale, with only a shade of her usual near-perpetual smile. “I’m—I’m getting along alright,” she said, trying to smile more convincingly, and not quite managing it. “But you, I can’t even imagine—Mr. Fell, I’m so sorry. Someone ought to have invited you to the funeral.”

“That’s quite alright,” he said gently. “I’m sure you were all preoccupied, and I was all the way in London.”

Crowley had actually floated the idea of attending her own funeral, just for fun, until Aziraphale pointed out a half-dozen reasons that was a terrible idea. The one he hadn’t mentioned, because it was sure to offend her, was that it would mean seeing her dear friends in distress over her passing. Aziraphale wondered sometimes if Crowley really understood that other people in the world cared about her.

“Come inside,” said Miss Page, taking his arm and leading him up the steps. “You must have tea with us.”

“Us?”

Miss Page glanced down, but not before Aziraphale recognized a true smile at her lips. “You remember my friend Miss Eliza Baxter.”

“Indeed. Has she taken up residence at Rothwell as well?”

“Not officially, as of yet, but she intends to bring her things over very soon.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear it.” Aziraphale beamed. Crowley would be pleased. “It’s far too large a house for one person.”

One of Miss Page’s servants opened the door for them. It was a very different view inside from what Aziraphale remembered. Bits and pieces of Crowley’s décor remained, but much of the furniture had been removed. The dark red curtains had been replaced with pale green ones, and many of Crowley’s paintings had been taken down. A few open boxes stood in one corner, half-unpacked. “I’m redecorating,” Miss Page said sheepishly. “Mrs. Harrison did a lovely job, of course, but…”

“You must make it your own.” Aziraphale smiled and bowed as Miss Baxter appeared at the doorway to the parlor. “Yours and Miss Baxter’s, of course. How do you do?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Miss Baxter was dressed in a lighter grey dress, rather than in full mourning attire, since she had not been as close to Crowley as Miss Page was. “It’s very kind of you to visit. Will you sit down with us?”

Aziraphale joined them in the parlor while the tea was readied, though he paused in the doorway on the way there. Miss Page had removed several of Crowley’s paintings, but Crowley’s likeness still looked down on them from the large portrait above the mantle.

Miss Page noticed him looking. “It is a well-done painting,” she said. “And we thought it might be a good way to—to keep the memory of Rothwell’s former inhabitant.” Her voice broke.

Miss Baxter was by her side in an instant, putting one hand around Miss Page’s shoulders while handing her a handkerchief with the other. “It has been a great loss for Hetty,” she told Aziraphale. “Mrs. Harrison was like an aunt to her.”

Aziraphale’s heart went out to the poor girl. It would be easy to tell her that she needn’t mourn, that her friend was alive and well in London, but that would require revealing Crowley’s demonic nature, which would be the last thing Crowley wanted. Besides, if word of Mrs. Harrison’s survival got out it, might jeopardize Miss Page’s ownership of Rothwell. “Of course, dear girl,” he said. “It’s natural to miss our departed friends. But Mrs. Harrison would not want us to be sad.”

Miss Page blew her nose and nodded as Miss Baxter led her to the sofa and eased her down onto it. “You’re right, of course. I know she always wished me joy, and she’s—she’s in a better place now.”

Aziraphale’s gaze flitted toward the ceiling as he sat down across from them. If Crowley ever found her way to the place Miss Page was imagining, it would be the end of her. “Well, she’s definitely not with her late husband.”

Miss Baxter’s eyebrows rose, and an unexpected laugh escaped from Miss Page. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I hope you’re right.”

“How are you faring after the news, Mr. Fell?” asked Miss Baxter.

Perhaps they thought it unusual for him to be so unaffected by the death of someone so dear to him. It was a very good thing he knew Crowley was still alive. If he really lost her—It didn’t bear thinking about. “I’m well enough, I suppose. I was aware of Mrs. Harrison’s blood condition, and I always considered it a possibility…Well, but I suppose nobody foresaw the carriage.”

They were all quiet for a moment. “They said it was immediate,” Miss Baxter said quietly. “That she didn’t feel any pain.”

Aziraphale had convinced Crowley to include that in the coroner’s report, specifically for the benefit of her friends. “That’s a comfort.”

Miss Page’s hands twisted the handkerchief into a knot. “To be frank, Mr. Fell, I had always imagined that you would one day inhabit Rothwell.”

“Me?” Perhaps it would have made sense for Crowley to leave the estate to him, considering the apparent nature of their relationship. “I have no need for Rothwell. I’ve always been perfectly happy in my bookshop. She left it to you for a reason.”

“No, I mean…if she had lived.”

“Hetty,” Miss Baxter said in a gentle undertone, laying a hand on Miss Page’s wrist to calm her fidgeting hands.

“I wished, at one time, to see you both happy here,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh, perhaps I should not say it now. You will be reunited one day.”

Something ached in Aziraphale’s chest. Perhaps they would have been happy together, but that would never be possible, even in the afterlife Miss Page was imagining for them. It was difficult to keep his voice even. “Mrs. Harrison hoped to see both of you happy here. It was her most fervent wish. Why do you think she took such pains to prevent you both from marrying?”

The young women looked at each other, Miss Page startled, Miss Baxter smiling. “She’s been very kind to us,” said Miss Baxter, moving her hand from Miss Page's wrist down to cover the back of her palm.

“I fainted when the will was read,” said Miss Page, with a small laugh, gripping Miss Baxter's curled fingertips. “So did my mother.”

“Perhaps it would be best if you did not visit Mrs. Page just now, Mr. Fell,” Miss Baxter added. “Between Mrs. Harrison’s passing, and Hetty inheriting a fortune, she has had a lot of excitement recently.”

Miss Page drew a small breath, her eyes wide. “Oh, I shudder to think of the things she might say.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I appreciate the warning. Miss Page, how are your sisters? Tell me about them.”

Her mood had lifted just slightly, and she managed another smile. “They are well, thank you for asking. Mrs. Harrison’s generosity will benefit all of my family, of course. Oh, and Louisa has decided to learn the piano,” she added. “Miss Baxter will teach her here at Rothwell.”

“Oh, that will be lovely.” Aziraphale glanced at the piano. “I don’t doubt the instrument will bring both of you, and your families, countless hours of entertainment.” He turned to smile at the two of them again. “My dear girls, I’m thrilled to see you both living here. I wish you every happiness in the world.”

The servants brought the tea, and once it was poured Aziraphale raised his cup. “Shall we have a toast? To the late Mrs. Harrison.” He turned towards the portrait on the wall. “May her kindness and generosity continue to live on.”

Miss Page raised her teacup towards the painting as well. “To Mrs. Harrison.”

“We all thank you,” Miss Baxter added. She gave Miss Page a look that made her companion blush and duck to hide a smile.

Aziraphale beamed into his teacup as he took the first scalding sip. With the demon looking down on them from the painting, he could almost imagine that she was in the room with them. He could practically see the way she would smile to see Miss Page and Miss Baxter together, and know that she had done well.

* * *

The bookshop was closed. Crowley raised his fingers to snap and miracle it open, paused, and gave it an experimental push. The lock clicked open, and the door swung to admit him. Huh. Guess Aziraphale had been right about it opening for him. He stepped inside. “Angel?”

“In the back, Crowley.”

He hung his hat on the rack by the door and found Aziraphale in his familiar armchair, sipping a cup of tea and looking the picture of contentment. Something about him looked different, but Crowley couldn’t put his finger on what. “Good evening to you,” said the angel.

“Evening,” said Crowley. “Closed up early today, did we?”

“I haven’t really settled on regular hours yet.”

“It’s been twelve years since you opened.”

“Besides, you told me you were coming.”

That was fair enough. Crowley frowned, still trying to figure out why Aziraphale looked odd, and then it hit him that the angel was wearing a black coat instead of his usual cream. “You’re still mourning?”

Aziraphale glanced down at his coat. “It hasn’t even been a month.”

“I’m touched, Aziraphale, but you know I’m not really dead.” Crowley gestured at himself.

“It’s the proper thing to do,” Aziraphale insisted. “People have been coming by to offer their condolences. Even Mr. Barnett, in fact.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “No kidding? Did he tell you how lucky you were to escape that engagement?”

“No, he came to apologize for what he said about you, and bury the hatchet.” Aziraphale sniffed. “So I told him exactly _where_ he could bury it, and asked him not to speak to me again.”

Crowley grinned. “I thought your lot were all about forgiveness.”

Aziraphale made an incredulous noise. “Clearly, you’ve never met Sandalphon. And you’d have understood if you were here. He had a tone.”

Crowley snickered. The absolute bastard of an angel. He was going to miss their little ploy. They still had the Arrangement, but it wasn’t the same as regularly teaming up to embarrass people they didn’t like. He stepped forward and slouched onto the sofa. “Bit dusty in here,” he said, wiping a finger along the end table and examining it. He snapped his fingers, and an invisible wind whisked dust off every flat surface in the room and through the crack under the door. The room brightened as some of the grime disappeared from the windows.

Aziraphale frowned. “You know I keep the dust around to deter customers.”

“S’alright, I just moved it into the front room.”

Placated, Aziraphale nodded. “Well, I’m glad to see you’ve gotten your regular miracle allotment back.”

“Me too.” It got really old having to ask Aziraphale every time he needed a miracle. Thank Satan the angel had been able to help him fake his death, so he didn’t need to actually discorporate himself. The paperwork would have tied him up for years. “Beelz was real impressed with my work, by the way. I think. It’s hard to tell, with them, but they only rolled their eyes at me once.”

“Gabriel was rather impressed with my work as well.” Aziraphale paused to sip his tea. “When I told him of my efforts to minimize jealousy and resentment between several men vying for the same woman’s hand. He praised my dedication to the job.”

A sharp laugh burst out of Crowley. “You didn’t.”

“I certainly did.” Aziraphale looked far too smug. “Speaking of which, I trust you’ve made dinner reservations for the evening?”

He hadn’t, but there would be a table free for them anyway. “More or less. You’ve got the scotch?”

“It’s in the cabinet. I suppose I should finish my tea quickly. Is your carriage waiting outside?”

“Nah, you’re thinking of Mrs. Harrison’s carriage. I came by hackney.”

“Of course, how silly of me. You just remind me so strongly of my dearest Mrs. Harrison.”

Crowley blinked. Had Aziraphale meant to call him “dearest”?

Aziraphale sipped his tea and gave no indication that he had noticed the wording of his previous statement. “Do you miss Rothwell?”

“Hell, no,” Crowley said immediately. “Being in the city is loads more fun. Okay, the view was nice, but I only looked at it every day for a sodding two and a half years. Think I’ve got my fill of the country.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I went for a visit a week or so ago.”

“Oh?” Crowley forced his posture to remain loose and careless. “And how is the new mistress of Rothwell?”

The angel smiled sadly. “Well, she misses her friend quite a lot.”

Behind the sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes flicked away from Aziraphale’s face. He had tried not to think too hard about that part of the plan.

“But, ah…mistress _es_ of Rothwell,” Aziraphale corrected. “Miss Baxter lives there, as well.”

Crowley straightened and leaned forward without meaning to.

“Mrs. Page thought it very generous of Henrietta to take in her dear friend,” the angel went on. “Particularly after Miss Baxter had the poor sense to reject a perfectly good offer of marriage. And Mrs. Baxter considers it the next-best thing that could have happened to her daughter.”

Crowley wished he could have gone with Aziraphale to check on Hetty and Eliza. He wanted to see for himself how they were getting settled into Rothwell, maybe give them a few warnings about which rooms were drafty and which had the best morning light, and, mostly, to make sure they had someone to turn to if anything went wrong. But Hetty had Aziraphale’s address, and as a literal angel, he was probably the better one to be looking out for them. “Thanks for checking on them. Are they, um…”

“They’re very happy to be together,” Aziraphale said in answer to the question he hadn’t asked. “And I believe they will be for years to come.”

“S’good.” Crowley gave a stiff nod and tried to hide how glad he was to hear it. A demon shouldn’t aspire to help people at all, much less draw joy from it. It wasn’t much, in the scheme of things, but it was more than enough to prove him unfit to work for hell. He could always claim he’d thought Upstairs would be opposed to two women living as a couple—the humans certainly thought so, even if Crowley and Aziraphale knew better—but the real reason he had taken Hetty and Eliza’s cause to heart was decidedly less demonic. Crowley always sympathized with people who had been told they loved the wrong person.

They hadn’t talked about their conversation that night at Rothwell. Crowley had a feeling they weren’t ever going to. That would probably be for the best. He and Aziraphale could be killed right now just for their feelings alone, and acting on them would only make it more difficult to hide.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Er, angel, not that that whole ploy wasn’t…I mean, it was…” _Don’t say “fun.”_ That made it sound like a short fling. Aziraphale was more than just _fun._ “…okay. But maybe we shouldn’t do something like this again.”

He half-expected Aziraphale to tell him that he was being ridiculous, that he didn’t mind at all, in fact he had quite enjoyed pretending to court Crowley. Which was exactly the problem. Aziraphale seemed to understand more than Crowley thought, though, because instead of protesting, he nodded and avoided eye contact with Crowley. “Perhaps you’re right.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Crowley kicked himself mentally for killing the conversation. “Finish your tea yet?” he asked, nodding at the teacup.

Aziraphale took one last sip before setting the cup down. “Now I have. Let’s go to dinner.”

Crowley propelled himself off the sofa. “And don’t forget about the scotch afterwards.”

“I doubt you’ll let me forget the scotch,” Aziraphale said dryly. “You have such a shrewd memory for things I owe you.”

“We _agreed._ I’m upholding my end.” Granted, it wasn’t so much an agreement as it was both of them naming different gentlemen at each other, reminding the other what he had done or how he had turned out, and twisting events to suit their narrative, until they both got tired and decided to call it a draw.

Crowley opened the door for him with a dramatical sweep of his arm, and Aziraphale stepped outside. “There’s a hackney stand just around the corner,” he said, pointing. “This way.”

Crowley fell into step at Aziraphale’s left. He glanced over at the angel, acutely aware of the several inches of air between them. He wished Aziraphale would take his arm, like he had when she was Mrs. Harrison. But that would never happen again.

It was better this way, Crowley tried to convince himself, and determinedly did not think about how far away Aziraphale was.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roughly 200 years later, Crowley and Aziraphale form a new kind of arrangement.

Aziraphale was practically vibrating in the passenger seat of the Bentley, too overcome with excitement to even admonish Crowley for her reckless driving. Crowley intended to give him plenty of grief about when her mood had settled. Her own heart was hammering in her chest as she brought the Bentley into the driveway. Gravel churned under the tires. Aziraphale clapped his hands together and pressed them to his mouth. “Crowley, look, it’s so _beautiful_.”

“You’ve seen it before,” Crowley said, shutting off the engine. The cottage was a pretty one-story thing of mottled brown brick, although the previous owners had carved the front lawn and shrubberies into painfully geometric shapes. Once she and Aziraphale were settled, she’d have to rip it up and replant. There was room for a garden in the back—That was one condition she refused to budge on when they were house-hunting—And once Crowley’d had time to work, and the plants had time to grow, _then_ the cottage might be beautiful.

“That was different,” said Aziraphale. “It wasn’t _ours._ ”

Crowley couldn’t argue with that, especially not when Aziraphale was looking at her with so much unbearable fondness. They had a home together now. Crowley had been practically living at the bookshop ever since the world didn’t end, but she’d always had to go back to her Mayfair flat for something, to water her plants or pick up a new change of clothes, or to sleep, since Aziraphale didn’t own a bed and the sofa got uncomfortable after a few nights. It annoyed her every time she had to leave, until it occurred to her that maybe she didn’t have to. And that both of them had been living in London for an awfully long time.

Aziraphale had been uncertain about the idea at first. Crowley assured him that there’d be plenty of space for his books, and they had tea and biscuits out in the country as well, and Crowley wouldn’t be any more of a nuisance than she already was at the bookshop. “In the country…are you sure?” Aziraphale said when Crowley had finished. “I know you prefer living in London.”

Crowley wouldn’t mind living much of anywhere, if Aziraphale was around. “Maybe retirement’s gotten to me. Some peace and quiet could be nice for both of us.”

Aziraphale winced and looked down at his hands. “What if we get tired of each other?” he said, so quietly that Crowley almost didn’t hear it.”

“Angel.” Crowley flung her arms wide. “It’s been _six thousand years._ ”

So, after several house-hunting trips, meetings with realtors, and arguments about how likely it was that one place with the nice bay window was haunted, here they were. Crowley shut the door of the Bentley behind her and leaned against the car for a moment to look at their new home. A celebratory bottle of champagne dangled from one hand.

Aziraphale popped open the boot of the Bentley, and Crowley turned to see him pull out a cardboard box of books with a grunt. “I thought we should get started taking some of this inside,” he said when Crowley raised her eyebrows.

“Good idea.” Crowley snapped her fingers, and the boot was empty.

Aziraphale huffed and shook his head. “Well, we have to bring at least one box in the human way.”

Crowley shot him a look to let him know he was being ridiculous, and twirled the keys to the cottage around her finger. “Shall we?”

She had imagined them walking up to the front door arm-in-arm, but that was difficult when both of Aziraphale’s arms were occupied with the box of books. The door opened before they even reached it, which made Aziraphale tut in annoyance. “My dear. If you weren’t even going to _use_ the keys, why…”

“Shh, are you going to be fussing at me when we take the first step into our cottage? That’s bad luck, or something.”

“As you pointed out, we’ve been here before.” Still, the words “our cottage” seemed to soften him. “All right, if you insist.”

Crowley waited for Aziraphale to catch up, so they could cross the threshold together. The den in front of them had been empty when they first came to see the place, just polished hardwood floors, grey-painted walls, and the large stone fireplace. Now, the space was full of book-boxes and potted plants, far more than should have been able to fit in the Bentley. The furniture would be delivered in bits and pieces over the next few days: Aziraphale’s sofa and several of his bookshelves, Crowley’s writing-desk and bed, and a new kitchen table and set of chairs that they had picked out last week. There would be a lot of shopping, and organizing, and probably some spirited debate about what color to paint what rooms, before they were really settled in. Somehow, it had seemed important that they move the books and plants first. It wouldn’t be home for either of them otherwise.

“Goodness.” Aziraphale set down his box and looked around. “There won’t be any room for the sofa like this.”

“We’ll move them into the proper rooms later.” Crowley touched her sunglasses, hesitated a moment, and removed them. This was their home now. She might as well start getting comfortable. “I think that’s enough manual labor for now. We’ve got celebrating to do.” She held up the champagne bottle

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to protest, and then gave up. “As long as we get to it later, I suppose. Shall we go outside and enjoy the weather?”

They sat on a bench in yard behind the cottage, looking across the empty grass to the brick wall that marked the end of their property. The bench was as large as the ones in St. James’ Park, but rather than carefully pushing to the opposite sides, Crowley and Aziraphale met in the middle and sat so their legs and shoulders brushed. It was how they had sat on the bus after leaving the Tadfield airbase, when Aziraphale had taken Crowley’s hand for the first time since that gesture had gone out of fashion between friends, and Crowley understood what their recent unemployment could mean for both of them. Crowley’s right arm stretched along the back of the bench, resting lightly against Aziraphale’s back. “Don’t know what they were thinking with this yard,” she said, sipping her champagne. “It’s so boring. Y’need something there, in front of the wall, some shrubs or something. And, honestly, a willow tree?”

“I think the willow looks quite nice.”

Crowley made a noise of distaste. “Should be planted next to water, not in the middle of the yard. It’ll suck all the good stuff out of the soil, and that’ll be rubbish when I start work on the garden.”

“Ooh, I’m quite looking forward to that.” Aziraphale wiggled excitedly on the bench. “It’s been a long time since you’ve had the opportunity to do any proper gardening, isn’t it?”

She could have just pointed through the window at all the greenery inside, but Aziraphale was right, potted plants weren’t the same. There was a lot more to take into account with an outdoor garden, and a lot more space to work with. “I guess so.”

Aziraphale took a sip of his champagne and looked thoughtfully across the yard. A breeze ruffled the willow branches, which rustled as they waved in the wind. “Do you remember that estate you had in the nineteenth century? I wish you’d gotten the chance to do some of the landscaping yourself. You could have worked wonders with those grounds.”

Crowley had wished that, too, but she’d had more important things to worry about than re-designing a garden. “Why d’you have to bring up Rothwell,” she groaned, glancing at the cottage behind them. “Now I’m comparing them. It was so _big._ ”

“It was too big, if I remember correctly,” said Aziraphale. “It’s a wonder you didn’t get lost in there.”

She had, actually, multiple times. If Aziraphale had lived there, too, it might not have felt so empty. Of course, that hadn’t been an option for them at the time, whatever the neighbors said or thought. Now, two hundred years later, here they finally were.

Aziraphale seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “Remember all those rumors that started over us?” He said, smiling in amusement and fiddling with something in his pocket. “It’s rather embarrassing, but that was when I first realized that I love you.”

Crowley grinned. “You needed half of London to point it out to you?”

“Yes, I know,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Dunno how I didn’t see it sooner. You were never very subtle.”

“Neither were you,” Aziraphale argued. “The first time I hinted—just hinted—at having taken an interest in you, my cousins—”

“They weren’t your cousins.”

“—My _friends_ acted like I was already engaged. You were surrounded by much wealthier suitors, and the Fells barely knew you, and they were already certain you would say yes. ‘A lady does not like to be kept waiting,’ Mr. Fell told me.”

“Oh, come on, you never really had any competition.”

Aziraphale smiled with heart-wrenching tenderness, his chin tucked in, eyes shining. He took another sip of champagne, set the glass on the ground beside the bench, and patted Crowley’s knee. “Well, dearest, I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting for so long.”

He slid off the bench and sank to one knee.

Crowley’s eyes flew open. Her grip on the champagne slackened enough for the glass to tip and pour into the grass. She didn’t hear any of Aziraphale’s proposal. The angel told her later that he had talked about their newfound freedom, and the freedom to choose, and choosing Crowley, forever, and hoping that she might choose him, too. Right now, though, she just stared at the angel in front of her, and at the ring in his hand, and watched his lips move without taking in a word of it. She was trembling by the time he finished, and managed to get out a vague noise in the affirmative. Aziraphale’s hands shook as well when he took one of her hands, slid the ring onto her finger, and kissed her knuckles as if it were still 1812. “Crowley,” he was saying over and over. He rubbed a hand over his eyes with a burbling laugh. “ _Crowley._ ”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley was on the ground next to the angel. “Are you crying?”

Aziraphale sniffled, beaming. “You are too.”

Crowley touched her eyes, and her hand came away damp. “Oh.”

“I’m so _happy_.” Aziraphale threw his arms around her. “I wish we could have done this centuries ago.”

Crowley hugged Aziraphale to her chest so that he wouldn’t see what a mess her face was. Her eyeliner was probably running all over the place. She clumsily reached up around Aziraphale’s neck to wipe her eyes. “I did suggest it.”

“Well, yes, but…”

“But.”

“Yes.”

Crowley’s eyeliner would probably run into Aziraphale’s coat, if she wasn’t careful, so she pulled back. Cradling one hand with the other, she examined the ring. Silver, with a thin band of gold running down the middle. “Gosh,” she choked. “This is really happening.”

“It is.” Gently, so gently, Aziraphale took Crowley’s head in his hands, tipped it forward, and rested their foreheads against each other. “Our whole lives together, Crowley.”

“Mngk. It’ll be nice,” Crowley managed to get out, putting his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders to hold him there

“It’ll be beautiful.”

They sat there for a long, wonderful moment, the best moment of Crowley’s life, leaning into each other and basking in the fact that they were here, and they were together, and they were _engaged._ It was an absurdly human thing, but only humans could have found such a way of choosing someone and pledging to spend your life with them.

“Although,” said Aziraphale, in a crisper, more businesslike tone, “I am aware that my station is quite below that of your last husband.”

Crowley frowned.

“And our little cottage can hardly compare to the majesty of your estate.” Aziraphale lifted his forehead from Crowley’s and squinted up at the cottage. “Let me count the windows. Hm…No, not even half so many as Rothwell, I’m afraid.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley groaned. “I really wish you wouldn’t bring up my previous marriage right after we’ve gotten engaged.”

The angel was smirking. “It doesn’t bother me at all that you’ve been married before, my dear. Although I hope that murdering your husband doesn’t become a pattern.”

Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s shoulders and slumped back against her hands with a scowl. “You smug bastard. You know I’d be happy to live in a cardboard box, if you were there. And, seriously, I do _not_ want to think about Mr. Harrison right now.”

“Oh, very well. I shall try to refrain from mentioning your first husband.”

“Don’t call him my bloody—” Crowley sighed. “Alright, one thing, and then we stop talking about it.” She held up one finger. “We’re not having the ceremony in a church.”

Aziraphale let out a sparkling laugh. “Of course, my dear. Fortunately, English marriage law is far more lenient than it was back in the day.” He looked around until he found his champagne glass, which he had knocked over, and Crowley’s, which was also sideways and empty on the grass. One of them had also knocked over the champagne bottle in the excitement, and a bubbly pool swirled around it seeping slowly into the grass. Aziraphale picked it up with a wince. “Oh dear. There’s hardly a swallow left now. We’ll have nothing to celebrate with.”

Crowley raised her hand to snap, but Aziraphale held up a hand to stop her. “No, I’d rather not drink champagne that’s been in the grass and the dirt.”

Crowley lowered her hand and shrugged. “Probably for the best. We still need to move all those books and plants to make room for the sofa. Can go out and find something to drink after that.”

“Oh, I’ve forgotten about the books.”

“You seem to do that a lot.”

Aziraphale shot Crowley a warning look, got to his feet, held out a hand to help her up. Still holding hands, they went back inside. “All joking aside, this will be a lovely home,” said Aziraphale, looking around with a soft light in his eyes. “It’s the perfect size for the two of us, and with the garden in the back…”

They walked into the den and both stopped. Crowley frowned. She shouldn’t have been surprised, really, since they had both been talking about Rothwell, and he remembered how Aziraphale had reacted during his visit. “Aziraphale?” she said, amused.

The angel looked around the room uncomfortably, his face bright pink. “Yes, my dear?”

Crowley waved a hand at the polished brown baby grand that appeared to have manifested out of Aziraphale’s thoughts. “Did we always have a piano there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and extra thanks to everyone who left comments along the way! I wish you all a lovely day <3


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